


To Be Elven

by AParticularlyLargeBear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/F, Friendship, Lyrium Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParticularlyLargeBear/pseuds/AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the temple of Mythal drives a wedge between Irala Lavellan and her girlfriend Sera, she's left desperately trying to reconcile her beliefs and her relationship. Torn between responsibility, love and homesickness, it's a struggle just to stay afloat. The only certainty; she is dalish, and she refuses to give that up.</p><p>Spoilers for main game and likely Jaws of Hakkon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The creak of a bowstring was the first and only warning Irala Lavellan received that she was on the bad side of her lady love. She had to admit, having a bow pointed at her face was not precisely how she’d grown accustomed to being greeted upon her entry into Sera’s room.

“Sera?” she managed. “That… that really isn’t funny.”

“Shut it!” Sera snapped. “S…show me that it’s still you, Buckles!”

Still – what in the Creators’ name was she talking about? “We… we were going to bake Inquisition cookies today?” she said weakly.

Sera’s face crumpled, and she lowered the bow. “Piss.”

Irala barely dared move. Sera was eccentric, erratic, carried on to the beat of her own drum, and this was still something that she’d never dreamed Sera would do. Throw a pie at her head, sure. Point a _weapon_ at her?

“Don’t look at me like that!” Sera was suddenly angry again, hurling her bow down. “You drank a weird magic thing in a place full of demons!”

Wait. This was about the Well of Sorrows? Sure, Sera had voiced some complaints at the time, but Irala had just figured that to be her usual distaste for anything magical. Irala hadn’t been thrilled about dipping her toes into millennia of elven history either, but it was either she do it or leave it to the mage, Morrigan. And after she’d demonstrated a staggering lack of understanding for anything and everything about how a temple of Mythal would work, Irala refused to trust the shem with that kind of knowledge.  

Half of Irala’s clan would have killed for just a glimpse of the wonders of that temple. That the guardians within apparently didn’t even view Irala – the dalish – as their people was a crushing blow. Irala knew the dalish weren’t perfect, but dammit, they were _trying_ , she was _trying_. They’d had their culture ripped from them and their homeland burned and razed twice, sorry that the couldn’t hole up in a temple for centuries and… and Sera was giving her a look.

Irala realised she’d been scowling into space. “The only demons there were Corypheus’s,” she asserted. “The sentinels and Abelas were real enough.”

“No!” Sera shot back. “It was a temple of stupid sleeping arses with their heads up in ancient history. And demons.”

Well, she couldn’t deny that the sentinels were frustrating. Irala still couldn’t place Sera’s reaction though. “That was ou- my heritage, Sera.”

“It was lies, was what it was,” Sera muttered back. “You can’t have other gods AND the Maker AND Andraste. I’m not believing in the gods of dead people who failed.”

Irala stared at her. “That was a temple to Mythal, Sera! I have-“ she cut herself off, shook her head, laughing with something like disbelief as she motioned to her _vallaslin_. “You realise that’s what these are? I literally have those ‘lies’ tattooed onto my face!”

“Then… then you’re stupid!”

Sera looked ready to punch her in that selfsame face. That or jump out of the window. Irala had to try very, very hard to keep her voice level and calm. “My beliefs are between me and the Creators, Sera. Just like yours are between you and your Maker.”

“Oh piss. You’re doing it, you’re going all _elfy_ on me!”

“I _am_ an elf, Sera!” okay forget level and calm, she was shouting. “And in case it’s escaped your notice, so are you!”

“Not that kind!”

“No, forgive me, you’re a _da’len!_ A petulant _da’len!_ ”

“Look at you, all clever with your other language! Don’t bloody talk to me!”

“Fine. Child. You’re being a _child._ ”

“I knew I shouldn’t start liking you!” Sera’s voice was shrill, hurt. “I knew you’d get elfy!”

Irala’s gut twisted. “You should have known better?” the words tore free before she could stop them, and then was tumbling over the precipice. “I should have known better than to fall for a- for a…” she choked back her own outrage, desperately trying to claw back from saying something that would be impossible to take back.

Sera’s head jolted back, as if struck. “For what? Say it, Buckles! For fucking what!?” her fists were clenched tightly, whole body straining forward and upward, trying to draw herself up to Irala’s height. “And don’t try and say it in elf! Talk a proper-“

“For a flat-ear!” Irala spat, then clapped her hand to her mouth. Oh, Creators.

For a second, there was deathly silence. Sera’s face screwed up horribly, cheeks reddening, shoulders trembling.

“S-Sera, I didn’t-“

“Get out,” muttered Sera. Tears were beginning to spill from the corners of her eyes.

“Sera-“ Irala took a step forward, and Sera snapped into life and shoved her back with both hands. More from surprise than anything else, Irala stumbled, nearly falling.

“GET OUT!” Sera screamed, loud enough to shake the room. “GET OUT, GET OUT, GET FUCKING OUT!”

Irala went for the door, first trying to maintain her composure, but then scrambling for it, fleeing, almost, from the tidal wave of emotions that was threatening to claw her down to the bottom and drown her. The moment she left, the door slammed with such force that it reverberated through the whole wall of Sera’s room.

All eyes in the Herald’s Rest were pointedly looking anywhere but towards Irala, who had both hands behind her head, clenching great fistfuls of hair. The silence of the tavern, however, told Irala everything she needed to know. They’d all heard. They all knew exactly what had just happened.

Still, given this was well and truly out in the open already…

Irala took no small satisfaction in overturning a table as she stomped her way out.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bull I need to hit something.”

Bull eyed Irala dubiously. “Hey I understand wanting to hit things as much as the next guy, but I dunno why you’re-“ he stopped. “Oh. You mean you want to hit me.”

Irala tugged a glove snugly over her left hand, adjusted her vambrace slightly. “I want to spar. If you get hit is up to you.”

Bull snorted. “Not for nothing, boss, but I know the kinda mood you’re in. I’m gonna get wailed on whether I like it or not.”

She shrugged. “All right, I’ll go find some recruits. I’m sure they’d love to train with the Inquisitor.”

The qunari stared at her for a second, and then let out a groan. “Now that is a cheap shot, boss,” Bull hauled himself to his feet, shaking his head. “Lemme go and find my padding.”

Irala shrugged, secured the opposite glove. Bull gave her a lingering look, then stepped outside of the armoury. Left alone, Irala reached almost automatically for the kite shield she’d taken to using over the past few months. She stopped as her hand brushed it, and then her arm dropped to her side. She didn’t feel like defending, not today.

Instead, she crossed to the other side of the room, unlatching a battered chest that sat against the wall. Within were the weapons she’d been wielding when this first began, when the sky tore itself open and Irala found herself working with humans to mend it once more. The first blade was longer, its grip well-worn but its edge still sharp. The second was a dagger, plain and unadorned but coming to a wicked point. Her dar’misaan and dar’misu had been with her since she left her clan, and she treasured them, even if they didn’t see much use these days. With all the resources of the Inquisition, they’d located better metals, had assistance from the smith Harrit and the arcanist Dagna in developing ever more advanced techniques for forging new weapons. Irala’s old weapons just didn’t match up to the new, and she was no smith; she’d never been able to explain to Harrit how exactly the dalish methods worked, so replacing them that way was out.

She took the dar’misaan in her left hand and gave a practice flourish. It was like reintroducing herself to an old friend, the balance still just as perfect as Irala remembered. Next, the dar’misu in her off hand, and in spite of how long it had been, the trained instincts were still in place, and she flowed seamlessly into the stance she’d spent many hours practicing, practically since she was a child. It wasn’t easy – it had never been easy, but it was Irala’s own little piece of elven history. Preserving these kinds of techniques was part of being dalish.

Irala worked through a few of the motions, the various steps and strokes of the stance coming easily to her. Wielding two weapons was very different to wielding one – naturally – to attack with her second blade, Irala needed to torque her body entirely differently than when making a stroke with the dar’misaan, and while her grip was strong, she couldn’t possibly generate the same power as someone making a swing with both hands. Still, performing those old exercises was enough to make her feel the tiniest fraction better, the smallest of chinks in the wall of anger and grief crushing down on her heart.

“Alright, Boss, you ready?” Bull reappeared in the doorway, strapped into some enormously bulky padded armour. He shook his head. “Because I’m sure as hell not.”

“Scared?” Irala tried a smile. She managed a humourless smirk.

Bull raised his eyebrows. “Boss, you’re scary enough as it is. When you’re pissed off, that’s some nightmare level shit.”

Irala motioned with her head. Bull sighed, threw up his hands, and walked out, heading for the training yard. Irala followed, tuning out her friend’s low-key grumbling and muttering about the situation. The whole reason she’d asked Bull to spar was that she knew that he could take it when she got rough, and to say that Irala had some serious stress that needed working out was putting it very mildly indeed.

Bull marched out into Skyhold’s main yard, an oft-trampled arena of dirt that all too often made a descent into muddied hell. Adverse training conditions built character, was Commander Cullen’s cheery remark. Personally, Irala just thought that he liked it so much because it reminded him of Ferelden, and was waiting for him to recommend they bring in some dog kennels. Bull turned and drew a longsword from his waist, unshouldered the shield he’d brought out of the armoury. He took a deep breath and then let it out.

He’d barely completed his nod before Irala was lunging forward in long and loping strides. She feinted with the dar’misu, and unfamiliarity with the style made Bull buy it, shift his shield, and get caught completely off guard as Irala planted her leading foot and swung from the back with the dar’misaan. The crash of the blade against Bull’s pauldron echoed across the yard, and he flinched from the blow. Irala reset herself and drove in again, though this time Bull was able to get his shield up. She didn’t care, pushing onward relentlessly, battering him with a focused fury she hadn’t felt since the emerald graves.

Still, he was a veteran and had well-drilled combat training. He was able to absorb the raw aggression of her onslaught – not without taking a few hits along the way – for long enough to resituate himself, get his feet set, and start fighting back. Bull’s swings were careful, with none of the brute force she’d come to expect from the qunari, but precise and disciplined. Irala was forced to let up in her assault to reform her defences, now bringing the dar’misu into play more in its role as the protective, parrying blade. Bull wasn’t striking hard at her, just forcing her to give a little ground, open up some breathing space.

Irala scowled, dipped her shoulder, and pivoted on a foot, dancing around Bull, making him continually turn to keep his shield relevant. She kept moving, lashing out with the dar’misaan each time it looked as if he wasn’t properly planted. A ringing clang on his breastplate, another meaty _thunk_ of a hit on his shield, a thump and a grunt of pain as her blade thudded into a less thoroughly padded place. Sweat was streaming down her forehead, and she was beginning to struggle a little to maintain her breathing, but she kept advancing, kept striking. Bull wasn’t Bull, he was her frustrations and anger, he was all the hurtful things Sera had said, and that Irala had flung back, because this was stupid, this was ridiculous and she shouldn’t let herself be so upset over, o-over…

A particularly vicious backhanded swing sizzled the air in front of Bull’s chest. Irala clenched her jaw, regathered her balance, riding the momentum of her own attack to swing aside from a ramming blow from Bull’s shield. Creators, why did he have to be so resilient? Anybody else would just be concentrating on protecting themselves, not sneaking in shots of their own. This was what she got for insisting on Bull. Another swing, and Bull anticipated it this time, pushing forward his shield again and catching Irala flush in the chin. She stumbled, howled an elven curse, and went back on the offensive, form growing more and more ragged as her emotions welled up more by the moment, overwhelming her composure. Her heart pounded wildly, and her dar’misu drooped low as disciplined practice gave way to berserk anger.

She wasn’t sure when she dropped the second blade, or even whether it was disarmed, rather than dropped. Regardless, she was suddenly wielding the dar’misaan with both hands, raining down blow after blow upon Bull. The qunari gave ground freely, soaking the worst of the hits on his shield, Irala less and less able to breach his defences as her breath began to come in ragged gasps that sent stabbing pains into her lungs. Still she advanced, attacked, attacked, because let up and she was giving up, let up, and the ravening hordes of doubt at her back would catch her and consume her whole.

Irala swung again, and then an agonising jolt of pain was arching down her arm, Bull’s shield colliding firmly with her forearm. As she flinched from the pain, his sword came up and around, dashed the dar’misaan from her grip and into the dirt. Irala swore, and when she looked up, it was into a calm expression of understanding, solidarity, and-

Irala went low and charged for Bull’s legs, wrapping both arms around them and driving her shoulder into his shins to tackle the man straight to the ground. There was an almighty crash and an ‘oof’ as Bull hit the floor, and Irala was scrambling _up_ the qunari in an instant, planting a knee on each of his shoulders and then teeing off with wild and flailing punches, glancing off jaw and armour and horns. Her knuckles were skinned in an instant, and the more she punched, the more her hands protested. She didn’t care, shouting and yelling a stream of obscenities, _Dread wolf take you let Falon’din lose your scent may you never find uthenera_. At some point, the tears began to stream down her face.

Bull caught one fist in a meaty palm, then the other. She struggled against his grip, hurling every curse she knew down into his face, all but frothing at the mouth. With Irala’s balance off, Bull twisted, dislodging her knees, and then smoothly sat up. She glared death at him, and then in one motion, he gave Irala a fierce hug, crushing her tightly to his chest. At last, the dam broke, and her angry tears burst into inconsolable raw grief.

“I l-l-loved her, Bull,” she sobbed into him. “I th-th-thought it was going to w-w-w-work,” and she had, she realised, she truly _had_. Once Sera had got beyond her scruples about courting another elf, once they’d come to an understanding that ‘dalish talk’ was off limits, Irala had really, truly believed that they were both past the worst tribulations that the relationship could throw at them.

And now it was over. Not a little dispute or disagreement that they’d be able to work past, not even one of their blazingly passionate arguments that tended to end with anything between a playfight and crazy sex. No, there wasn’t any coming back from yesterday, not after what they’d both said to one another.

“I know, Irala,” Bull murmured back. “I know you did.”

He stayed that way for what seemed like hours and could well have been. Quiet assurances whispered into her ear, just embracing her as she clung to him like a sturdy tree in a storm. She cried until the tears dried up, and then the dry sobs still wracked her, the heartache held tight in a deathgrip.

At long last, she summarised it all with a word. One of Sera’s favourites, one she’d never really used before coming to human lands.

“ _Fuck_.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was three days later that they first crossed paths with one another again.

Irala had been going out of her way to avoid the Herald’s Rest, as well as the various rooftops and sections of battlement she knew Sera liked to climb across. In turn, Irala was reasonably sure Sera had been keeping out of Skyhold’s tower at all costs – not that the other woman had really spent much time there other than to visit Irala. She wasn’t sure if she could call it an understanding, maybe just intuition, definitely deliberate avoidance, on both their parts.

Sooner or later, though, that good fortune had to run out, and run out it did as Irala stepped through a doorway into Skyhold’s main hall and was confronted with Sera almost directly on the other side. It looked like, with Sera sitting on a table, swinging her legs, that she’d been in the middle of some kind of talk with Varric. For his part, the dwarf jumped to his feet, flickering hesitant, worried glances between them both.

There was a breathtaking instant where Sera’s face lit up, just like normal. “Buck-“ and then reality crashed back in for both of them, and ‘breathtaking’ turned into a seizing, crushing sensation in Irala’s chest. Sera’s expression darkened into a frown. Never one to hide her emotions, Irala knew, because of course she knew. “Hi, you.”

None of the affection Irala had come to associate with Sera saying that simple word. Just a ‘you’ stoked with venom and hurt.

“Sera,” Irala knew her own voice could scarcely sound any better. Even saying Sera’s name was like dragging a knife across her heart.

For a few seconds, they just looked at one another. Irala desperately wanted to rush forward, take Sera in her arms, kiss her again and again, apologising for what she’d said, begging for forgiveness. Yet she remained frozen in place. Because to give ground like that would be to say that she was wrong – and Creators, Irala had certainly been in the wrong during the argument, but so too had Sera. Irala was dalish; that ruined temple had been the most intact remnant of her culture she’d ever seen. It had been _elven_ , it had belonged to Mythal and her worshippers.

Demons and lies?

She wouldn’t, she _couldn’t_ go back on everything she believed for the sake of her feelings for Sera. Irala was already so far from home, she already had so many calling her a Herald, claiming that she was saved by Andraste, and even if that wasn’t true, it had become a symbol. She was already the talisman and figurehead of a chantry organisation, the very chantry that had driven her people to the brink of destruction. What would she be if she surrendered her heritage even within her own heart?

_We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit._

Sera, she realised, was starting to tremble. The other woman opened her mouth, tried to say something, then shook her head, closed her mouth. Her hands were bunched into tight fists, and Irala noticed, dimly, that there were bandages wrapped around Sera’s knuckles, just like those binding her own hands.

They had a lot in common. They’d always had a lot in common. It was part of the reason they’d become so close. Maybe it was the reason for… for…

Sera gave a strangled shout that probably had a curse in there somewhere, spun around, and fled from the hall, sending a dignitary flying as she did so.

Irala had barely managed half a step towards stopping her. She lowered her foot back onto the ground and dropped her head. She knew the judgemental looks and gossiping that would be directed her way from those in the room, and she didn’t want to see them. Like it or not, Irala’s position made her a very public figure, and she was quite certain that her relationship status was doing the rounds through Skyhold’s rumour mill. That didn’t mean she actually had to acknowledge it, though.

“Thorns…” Varric’s voice was soft, with the slightest hint of reproach. “She’s real torn up, you know.”

Belatedly, Irala realised that she hadn’t even been thinking about where Sera might have been gaining her own comfort from the split. Irala had few enough shoulders to cry on – she wasn’t certain how many Sera managed. Regardless, it was another twist of guilt in her gut. She should have backed off and left the two of them to it, not stayed and forced Sera to either confront her or run.

“I know,” was what she said at length.

Varric shook his head. His face was the most careworn Irala had seen him since Adamant. “You’re upset. She’s upset. Neither of you are just gonna get over the other. Would it kill you to apologise, Thorns?”

Irala grimaced. He meant well, of course he meant well, but in this situation he didn’t… he just couldn’t understand. “I’m not saying sorry for being me, Varric,” she held his eyes. “Do you get what I mean? I won’t turn my back on who I am for anyone. Not even…” she swallowed down a lump in her throat. “Not even for her.”

“That’s your choice to make,” he shrugged lightly, mustered a shadow of a smile. “I just hope it’s the right one, for you and for her.”

“Stop making this about her,” there wasn’t enough energy to call it a _snap_ , but it wasn’t far off. Varric blinked, started to frown, started to speak – Irala cut him off. “I said some things I shouldn’t have said, but this is Sera. She’s honest, she’s in your face. I’m not going to lie for her sake. I won’t play happy, imaginary girlfriends by being something I’m not,” she turned away from him then, headed back towards the door she’d initially emerged from. “I refuse to betray her trust like that.”

“Thorns-!”

“It’s fine, Varric,” Irala’s vision was beginning to blur. She pressed an arm to her face, trying to stem the flow, fleeing just as much as Sera had been. “Tragedies make for better stories, don’t they?”


	2. Chapter 2

The highs and lows of being Inquisitor. After his defeat at the temple of Mythal, Corypheus made his play with all the force and desperation of an ancient magister. They fought back, as they always did, and Irala led the way, led the assault in the final battle. At her side fought Sera. As she always did. They scarcely exchanged a word with one another throughout the entire climatic clash, and though Sera’s taunts and jibes flew through the air, her heart never seemed to truly be in it. Irala returned to sword and shield, channelled every bit of her focus in weakening Corypheus’s magic, nullifying the insidious corruption and injury he attempted to visit upon her and her companions. It was good to know that the arduous training, that the daily draughts of lyrium were worth the effort. She cared nothing for the templars, but having vindication that learning their talents would be useful was worth a lot.

At the last, Irala’s group confronted the ancient magister to strike him down once and for all. Bull at her side, Dorian protecting them all, countering Corypheus’s spells with his own, and of course Sera, peppering with arrows and foul-smelling flasks of incendiaries. The battle was far from an easy one. Once, twice, Bull was knocked down, had to be hauled from harm’s way. Dorian’s robes were singed, frayed, and at one point, torn to ribbons. Irala lost a pauldron, and then half of her shield. A pulsing maelstrom of dark energies exploded at Sera’s feet, flinging her into the air. Irala was there in an instant, pulling her back up, and she simply spun aside and was right back into the fight without even looking into her eyes.

That hurt as much as any of Corypheus’s attacks.

Soon enough, through perseverance and grit and perhaps the magister’s desperation, they claimed the advantage. Corypheus flagged, Corypheus lapsed in his defences, and the Inquisition party found a chink in his armour. An arrow to the chest, a blast of fire sending him staggering back, and Irala was there with her sword to strike home. This time, rather than clattering into a barrier, sliding off armour, rebounding, Irala felt the blade bite into him, and he howled.

After that, the darkspawn fell swiftly. Perhaps too swiftly – Irala remembered Varric and Hawke speaking of how he’d returned to life, Creators, she’d seen it first-hand. So she made certain of it. She used the anchor, she ripped Corypheus asunder and sent him into the Beyond. Revive from that, you bastard.

The celebrations were wonderful, exultant and triumphant. Irala threw herself into them, because it was that or allow herself to remember all the plans she’d made beforehand. All those hours sitting on a roof with Sera, talking about what they’d do after they won, where things were going, the kind of hell they could raise and just how they’d party into the night after Corypheus’s demise.  

It was good – it was _great_ to unwind and at last breathe a sigh of relief, at last feel safe. But the joy rang hollow. Irala was surrounded by others and yet felt completely and utterly alone.

She didn’t catch a glimpse of Sera that night. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or desperately disappointed.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

 

* * *

 

 

While Corypheus was defeated, the Inquisition didn’t end with that victory. There was still more work to be done – there was always more work to be done. Irala longed to see her clan again, but knew that she had responsibilities that she couldn’t shirk. The Inquisition could survive without her, she was sure, but she was the one with the mark on her hand, she was the one who could close the fade rifts. Irala had never asked to be Inquisitor, it was something that had been thrust upon her, that she’d grown into with time. More pertinently, without her, the Inquisition’s forces could manage containment at best. Certainly, it was more than many other organisations would be capable of, but while Irala could still make a difference, she couldn’t afford to go running off. What if people died just because she wanted a break? The idea left a sour taste in her mouth.

Admittedly Irala had been expecting the Inquisition’s soldiers to up and go home themselves. Corypheus was defeated and the Breach was gone. That firmly checked off the top of the Inquisition’s list of priorities. In practice, while a decent portion of those under their banner did elect to leave, many more decided to stay on. For many, Irala came to realise, the Inquisition had come to represent a home, a family, a chance to be a part of something bigger than just themselves. Some didn’t have any home to go back to even had they wanted to. If nothing else, that was worthy enough cause for the Inquisition to remain, for Skyhold to remain.

For the most part, Irala’s companions decided to stay on. That was surprising in some cases more than others. Bull and the Chargers had practically become part of the scenery, and Irala considered him to be one of her closest friends. After what had happened between him and the Qun, there wasn’t exactly a waiting place back amongst the Ben-Hassrath. Varric kept making noises about heading back to Kirkwall, though he didn’t seem in any particular hurry to actually do that, while Dorian was much the same way about Tevinter. If Irala were to hazard a guess, it would be that Iron Bull had a certain something to do with Dorian’s decision. Cole was… Cole – according to him the Inquisition was still helping people, and by Cole logic, that was all the motivation needed for him to remain. Blackwall, Cassandra, Cullen – they were all still around, as dependable and stolid as ever. So too was Josephine, a particular lifesaver in the political storm that was kicking up around the Inquisition. However, Vivienne, Leliana, Solas; all three of them were gone. The former two lost to politics and Val Royeaux, albeit still both keeping in touch, the latter… Well, Solas had simply vanished after Corypheus’s death, something Irala held mixed feelings about. She’d never met another elf, not even her clan’s keeper, with so much knowledge about history, both elven and otherwise. On the other hand, he’d been decidedly cool on the topic of the dalish, outright derogatory at times. It was… upsetting for someone that Irala would otherwise have held in very high regard. She wished, at least, that she would have had a chance to say goodbye.

And then there was Sera.

Irala had been certain that she would make her departures and go back to… doing whatever it was that Red Jennies did. Stealing noblemen’s boots. Hadn’t that been why she’d signed up? To get things back to normal, so that she could keep having her fun and keep standing up for the little people. That had been Irala’s understanding; maybe it was more fool her for taking someone as unpredictable as Sera at face value. Nevertheless, as the days went by, Sera’s presence filled the Herald’s Rest just as much as it ever had, and as preparations and plans were made for the Inquisition’s first big operation post-Corypheus, it became increasingly clear that Sera was full intending on participating.

Irala wasn’t exactly thrilled. The wounds were still raw, and she’d hoped that she would be able to gain some sorely needed space. Skyhold wasn’t so large that chance encounters could be ruled out, and every time they bumped into one another, it was as if replaying that day all over again. Neither of them was a good enough speaker to be able to properly find words to express their feelings, to explain to one another. No sooner would they exchange a few awkward sentences than both of them were making some hasty excuses and beating a retreat. Often, one or the other of them didn’t bother with the excuses, they just turned and left.

It hurt. Irala missed how things had used to be. She missed lazing around in Sera’s room, she missed having her girlfriend sitting in her lap all over Skyhold. She even missed Sera constantly trying to steal food off her plate when she thought she could get away with it. They hadn’t been together for that long, perhaps six months all told, but it already felt like an agonising eternity since they broke up. Irala had no experience of relationships; there hadn’t been time for them, back in clan Lavellan, and she’d never been certain of how to broach the topic anyway. There had been one girl that she was sweet on, but Irala had always frozen up rather than explain how she felt, fearful that she would be rejected. She wondered if it would have felt as bad as this, and decided that no, probably not.

In any case, Sera remained, and as the Inquisition geared up for a jaunt out to the so-called Exalted Plains (Dirthaveren. The Dirth), Irala saw all the telltale signs of the other woman making her own preparations to come along. Targets in the training yard peppered with throwing knives, arrows turning up in odd places as Sera practiced trick shots. Foul smells drifting out of the undercroft as dangerous alchemical concoctions were brewed. Little baked treats appearing around the place for Sera’s friends, for her little people.

Irala had helped her bake those, a few times. They’d both been awful to start with – Sera wasn’t much for patience or precision, while Irala’s cooking experience extended only to game. Their first few attempts had been unmitigated disasters, and on one occasion, the two of them had ended up smothered in flour. They’d both began to improve, by the time they- they’d both began to improve. Seemed as though, from the reactions of those eating the cookies, that Sera’s baking had really come along.

Irala was pleased for her in a way that sent stabbing pangs of longing throughout her body.

Soon enough, the day of departure arrived, and it was time to leave. The baggage train was set up – the wagons had been sitting just inside Skyhold’s gate since the previous night – and Cullen was in the process of mustering the soldiers who were to head out into the field with them. He wouldn’t be leading them personally, as much as Irala knew that he’d want to. Instead they were in the charge of one of the younger, brasher officers, a fiery Fereldan woman named Noell. Irala didn’t know much about the captain, even though she’d been with them since Haven; she was usually assigned to mopping up and securing areas after the initial force came through, and that meant they rarely crossed paths. This was the first time Noell had been put in charge of the first phase of an operation; she’d practically been vibrating with excitement at the war table meetings where they’d planned their approach on Dirthaveren.

Theoretically, the problems on the plains should have been resolved, with the Orlesian succession crisis eased. In practice, Orlais had been so weakened by the civil war that apparently nobody had bothered getting around to pulling their troops out of the area. And because one side was still entrenched, the other side remained too, and so on and so forth. Irala didn’t doubt that reports of demons, Venatori, and the walking dead had something to do with the stalemate, but it was still exasperating that the Inquisition’s intervention was required for hand holding as well as shutting rifts. Hadn’t they already done their part in ending the conflict? Apparently not.

They would be leaving soon, and Irala went about her own preparations. Each time an Inquisition soldier or a visiting diplomat hailed her, she forced a smile and a nod of acknowledgement. It wasn’t any of their faults that her mood was so foul, and the last thing she wanted was to cause an incident by being impolite. Maybe being out in the field would do her some good, regardless of Sera’s presence. She’d been cooped up in this fortress for way too long. Dalish didn’t belong behind stone walls and battlements. In spite of that, and much to Irala’s irritation, there was still an expectation to make a spectacle of her departure. She was, after all, the Inquisitor, and it wouldn’t do for her to look too _scruffy_ as she left Shyhold. Never mind that she had a great deal of riding ahead of her; at least for leaving Skyhold, she had to be seen as a symbol of power.

Which meant – damn it to Fen’harel – that she was going to have to wear her armour at least until they first made camp on the road. Idiotic, if you asked Irala. Josephine hadn’t, but Irala had told her as much anyway. She’d never been one to keep her opinions to herself. Reluctantly, however, Irala wound up agreeing, if only because there were plenty of other areas in which she didn’t see eye to eye with Josephine, and this particular issue wasn’t worth being the one to take a serious stand over. Besides, Irala still owed her one – or several – over the Winter Palace.

Irala had still left it until the last moment to don her armour, largely because she was already going to be spending far too much time in it today. Her armour was great and all – Dagna and Harrit had done a fantastic job, but it was built for protection (and perhaps a little show), not comfort.

Helm tucked under her arm, Irala clanked and clattered her way down into Skyhold’s opening courtyard. Most of the procession was already set to go, and she felt a momentary pang of guilt that they were probably waiting on her arrival to set off. Maybe she should have finished preparing sooner. Still, she just needed to pick up a mount from the stables and she’d be all set. Dennet would already have prepared Irala’s favoured horse, the painted mare from the Anderfels, so it was just a matter of collecting her.

And yet… she hesitated as she approached the corrals. She was going to Dirthaveren, after all. Somehow it seemed wrong to begin the march resplendent in her Inquisition armour, on an Inquisition mount. Chantry chantry chantry, it screamed, and Irala didn’t know if she could deal with that. Not after the Graves, which had made her feel a traitor, even if the Inquisition wasn’t truly an arm of the chantry. They had enough shem priests and former templars for it to feel that way; Creators, wasn’t it the shem’s Divine that had ordered it formed? It was down to a Divine that the shems called Dirthaveren the _exalted plains_.

She stopped at the edge of the corral, running an eye over the horses within. In the adjoining pen were other mounts they’d picked up over the course of the Inquisition’s lifetime, most of which she could freely choose from.

“Dennet?” she called lightly.

The horsemaster materialised from inside the barn, a bridle in his hands. “Ah, Inquisitor, I’ve got the mare saddled up and ready to go.”

Irala smiled apologetically, but her heart and convictions were firm – she knew what she wished to ride. “Sorry to change my mind like this, but is the brown hart fit for the journey? He wouldn’t need saddling.”

Dennet groaned. “You halla riders and your bareback,” he ran a critical eye over the hart, and then shrugged. “He’s fine, Inquisitor, if a little feisty. It’s on your neck if he throws you.”

“ _Ma serannas!_ ” Irala chirped in reply. She’d always had a weakness for harts, and it had been too long since she’d taken one of them out of Skyhold.

Dennet looked a little taken aback, possibly by her elven, possibly by her good cheer. She smiled again, stepping towards the paddock and patting the hart on the nose. It gave a quiet snort and nudged her in response, just hard enough to be a tacit demonstration of strength. All right, they understood one another.

“Thank you,” she said again, and Dennet nodded slowly.

“Just doing my job, Inquisitor.”

The horsemaster opened the paddock ahead of her, and Irala gestured the hart forward. After staring at her blandly for a moment or two, he decided to go along with it and began to follow her. Positively beaming, Irala made her way back over to Skyhold’s gate, the hart trailing along in her wake, inclining his antlers towards any curious onlookers that got too close. That sufficed from dissuading any unwelcome attentions – maybe Irala should start jabbing sharp things at people who tried to harass her…

A tall horned figured gave a wave from the middle of the crowded supply train. Irala smiled, nodded, returned it, but no more. As much as she would have loved to ride alongside Bull and the Chargers, she had to be seen to be leading, at least for the grand departure. Steadily, Irala progressed to the front of the progression, the hart growing closer and closer to her the more people that bustled around him, until at last his nose was bumping her in the back every few metres.

“Oh stop it, you wuss,” Irala muttered at him. “You’ll have to get used to them,” the hart snorted in what was probably irritation and bumped her again.

Thankfully, they’d reached the gate. Cullen was waiting there, looking ever-so-official in his armour. Alongside him was a pacing Cassandra, and watching herwas Noell, who was all but bouncing in place, smiling delightedly. She looked less a soldier and more like an overstimulated puppy, even at near six feet tall and with an _actual dog_ sitting next to her. Irala hadn’t, before that moment, known that it was possible for a mabari to look world-weary.

“Inquisitor. Good to see you,” Cullen was formal as always, though Irala liked to think a mutual respect existed between the two of them. He was certainly… uniquely qualified to provide a perspective on the risks of taking lyrium and undergoing templar training. She did wonder sometimes if he resented that she had wound up ignoring his advice on the matter.

She pushed those thoughts aside. “And you, Commander. Here to see us off?”

“Of course, and perhaps to provide some parting instructions to our dear captain here.”

Noell snapped to crisp attention, a disciplined bearing that was rather spoiled by the broad grin on her face. Well, that and the dark mane that passed for her hair, but at least she was trying.

“You can count on me, Commander,” said Noell. Her voice was husky, befitting her size, and with a very Fereldan accent.

“I’m sure,” there was a glint of amusement in Cullen’s eye.

Cassandra, who had stopped pacing, directed a short bow of the head towards Irala. “You look…magnificent,” Cassandra sounded almost surprised. “I forget how wonderful that armour is when not splattered in mud and gore.”

“It’s armour,” offered Irala, smirking. “If it isn’t splattered in something, then there’s a problem.”

Noell guffawed. Loudly. She then proceeded to look embarrassed and ashamed in equal measure. Creators, had she and her mabari been switched somehow?

Cassandra tssked, but hid a smile behind her hand, before sobering almost instantly. “I had hoped to ride alongside you, with your permission. We have much to discuss.”

Irala looked at the Seeker for a long, lingering moment, and then nodded. She had a sinking feeling that she knew what Cassandra would want to talk about. Yet avoiding the conversation would be akin to running away, and Irala had done quite enough of that as of late.

Cullen had taken the opportunity of the distraction to draw Noell aside and rattle off a steady stream of advice and orders. Noell nodded her head enthusiastically every few seconds, hanging onto the Commander’s every word. Irala had a feeling that they’d be in good hands; Cullen didn’t pick his officers out of a hat, though she wasn’t certain of Noell’s background, pre-Inquisition. She seemed a little young to have been involved in the Blight, and Irala didn’t know enough about Ferelden to say what other conflicts had happened there in the intervening years.

Stroking the hart’s neck absently, Irala realised that conversations aside, they were more or less waiting on her order. Elgar’nan, she was never going to get used to being in command.

“All right, hold still,” she murmured into the hart’s ear, reaching up and climbing onto his back with practiced ease. He snorted petulantly, but otherwise consented to bear her weight. Good, the last thing she needed was an unruly mount to toss her flat on her back in front of the entire Inquisition. Especially one she’d specifically picked out instead of her usual horse.

That very well could have been the signal. The bustling of the crowd behind her quietened, to be replaced by the sound of a great deal of men, women and otherwise mounting up. They weren’t all to ride, of course, but a good proportion of them would make the journey on horseback. So long as the riders didn’t set too punishing a pace – and Irala didn’t intend to – the supply wagons wouldn’t lag behind too badly. Speed was important, but not moreso than making sure everybody had food. Nearby, both Cassandra and Noell climbed onto the horses, the latter’s mabari perking up immediately.

“Inquisition!” Irala called in the sudden quiet. “We move out! Let’s do what we do best and restore order!”

A cheer went up, and Irala was glad that she could don her helmet to hide her blushes. Their enthusiasm was just overwhelming, and she was hardly an eloquent speaker, to deserve that kind of reaction.

“Good luck, Cullen!” she directed to the Commander as he stepped aside from the gate. “Don’t let Skyhold burn down while I’m gone!”

“I’ll do my very best!” he shouted back up to her, over the sudden din of the party getting into motion. “Take care not to die!”

Irala simply smiled as she led the way out of the gate. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after – a distinctive giggle, rife with mischief, emanated up from some way behind her – all.

Suddenly, she was struggling to feel that same enthusiasm any longer.

 

* * *

 

 

Irala’s mood remained dark for some considerable distance outside of Skyhold. She told herself that she shouldn’t let just hearing Sera affect her in that way. The assurance that gave her, to be entirely frank, was nil. Irala was clumsy with emotions, and no better when it was her own that were concerned. Her solutions to problems tended to involve hitting things until they stopped being problems. You couldn’t punch heartache. Irala wasn’t even able to do what she really wanted, which was to allow the hart head to just run off into the mountains, ride and ride until they could ride no more. That freedom, however, was a luxury that she couldn’t afford, as tempting as it was to throw caution to the winds.

Mercifully, Cassandra picked up on Irala’s dampened spirits, and left her alone. For all that they’d met during a screaming and shouting interrogation, the Seeker could be very astute when she set her mind to it. Regardless, Irala was grateful for the space; she had an awful lot on her mind right now, and the last thing she needed to add to that was a deep-and-meaningful, even with someone who doubtless had good intentions. _Especially_ someone who had good intentions.

Noell, by contrast, spent the first hour of the trip engaged in a running dialogue with her dog. At least, Irala thought it was a dialogue. The mabari kept barking at appropriate times in the ‘conversation’, and Noell was acknowledging and responding to each bark as if the animal had given her a genuine response. Irala wasn’t sure if it was a testament to mabari intelligence or Fereldan insanity. At the very least it was a distraction from her own thoughts.

Steadily, the mountainous terrain surrounding Skyhold began to give way to more level ground. Though they wouldn’t be out of the hills any time soon, it was good to not be travelling at so steep an incline. While Irala’s hart could handle slopes with ease, she couldn’t say the same for the heavy draft horses pulling their wagons. She didn’t doubt that they’d have their shares of broken wheels and small scale disasters over the course of the journey, but she was hoping their luck would hold out for at least the first day. It was important for the troops’ morale that the operation start off well – a struggling start would stick in the memory for much longer than any other bad patch.

Though speaking of morale, Irala could hear a raucous marching song rising from the convoy behind her. As was the expectation with such things, it was equal parts enthusiastic and lewd, laden with plenty of innuendo. Not especially subtle innuendo. She was less than surprised to be able to pick out the telltale chorus of Bull’s Chargers. Actually, she was better than seventy percent sure that it was probably Bull who had started the singing in the first place. As Cole had once expressed to her, Iron Bull knew an extraordinary number of ways to refer to a woman’s breasts.

The song concluded with an almighty roaring cheer, and for the first time since that morning, Irala finally found herself smiling again. It seemed like no matter the circumstances, no matter whether he was at her side or not, Bull could always find a way to cheer her, if only a little.

Nearby, there was a loud clearing of the throat. Irala glanced over to see Noell sitting up very straight in the saddle, a grin slowly spreading across her face. The captain twisted around, as if to verify that the closest riders were paying attention. Her mabari barked, and apparently that was a cue, because no sooner had it done so was Noell adding her own contribution to the Inquisition’s already extensive musical repertoire.

It was loud, bawdy and while containing no references to breasts, did carry a few implications towards the sexual preferences of Orlesian noblemen. Apparently they needed to wear their masks in order to become aroused in bed? Honestly, Irala lost track of it about four verses in, round about the time Noell started singing about exotic cheese.  The rest of the marching column seemed to appreciate it, anyway, and most of them picked up on the chorus by the third time through. Some actually appeared to know it already. Must have been a Fereldan thing.

Noell wasn’t actually too bad a singer by soldiering’s low standards. She was better than Bull, although the qunari didn’t present particularly stiff competition in that respect. Regardless, Irala could think of worse ways to pass the time on a long march. In spite of the fulfilment of their original purpose, the Inquisition’s heart was as gladdened as ever. That, more than the songs, proved a light in the darkness.

They halted at midday in a comparatively sheltered collection of rocks. Inquisition forces and those travelling to Skyhold frequently used the area as a stopping place, and the remnants of many old campfires could be seen dotted around the place. It would take a bit of logistical manoeuvring to squeeze a convoy of this size into the limited space, but Irala was sure they’d manage. She was also sure that it was a task best left to the people who were actually good at pitching camp. Travelling in aravels and through woodlands didn’t, as it turned out, translate particularly well into setting up a temporary military encampment.

After a quick conferral, Noell was eager enough to begin spreading the news down the train that they were to stop for a rest. Irala, for her part, simply breathed a sigh of relief, all but leaping from the hart’s back, landing on the rocky ground with a crunch of gravel. The hart gave her a baleful glare and attempted to step on her foot. Irala quickly pulled her toes out of harm’s way, flicking the animal on the ear in mild reproach. She tried not to take it too personally; this was probably the first time the hart had been out from the fortress for more than light exercise for quite a while. Dennet was good, and so were his people, but there were far too many mounts in Skyhold for them all to be given a full run out every day.

Besides, Irala had dealt with worse than an ill-tempered hart.

Irala grimaced as she turned back to watch the procession begin to trundle into the campsite. If she was any judge, it would probably be at least half an hour before everyone was here, and that was without factoring in the inevitable delays. This many wagons were bound to cause issues at some point, even if only in terms of pure congestion. Unfortunately for her aching legs and shoulders, that meant being able to change out of her armour was still some way off. Her gear was aboard one of the wagons, and though she fully intended to take charge of her own pack from here on out, appearances had insisted it would look… odd for someone of her rank to be carrying a bag out of Skyhold.

She really bloody hated appearances. If it didn’t so frequently wear Josephine’s face, she probably would have kicked it out of a window. Josephine, however, had a particular knack for making her feel very, very guilty if she didn’t go along with such things. The Keeper had been good at that, too; it was half the reason Irala had ever agreed to come to the conclave in the first place.

Hard even to conceive of those days now. It was the better part of three years since an explosion had torn a hole in the sky and Irala was thrust into the middle of this all. She could scarcely have dreamed where her Keeper’s request would eventually lead her.

They wrote to her, sometimes, from the Free Marches. Irala treasured each letter, especially knowing how difficult it must have been to get the messages to Skyhold. Often it was simply news; Janwen’s baby was a boy, the halla were in good spirits, Yevis had broken his leg. Mundane but… a little reminder of the home she had left behind. She wrote back whenever she could, although her penmanship was awful and her responses usually quite brief. One part how busy she was, one part that she just wasn’t a very good writer. Words weren’t her natural territory. She was more at home training, exercising, or with more practical tasks, like tanning and fletching. She was skilled with her hands, not with her wit.

She was deep in thought about her clan when a hand brushed her shoulder gently. Irala jumped, jerking away from the contact. Her immediate thought was Sera, who so loved sneaking up on – it was Cassandra.

“I apologise. I did not mean to startle you.”

Irala exhaled. “It’s fine. No harm done.”

“That tune was quite pretty. I do not believe I have heard it before.”

“Tune?” Irala stared at Cassandra incredulously. Surely she wasn’t talking about the marching songs.

Cassandra’s eyebrows rose. “You were humming. Did you not realise?”

“I was…” Irala trailed off. When she first travelled to Haven, and in the earlier days of the Inquisition, she’d often sang softly to herself. It had always helped her feel a little less homesick, thinking back to the times that _Hahren_ Gaila had gathered the children around her and told them tales of the People through songs. Irala couldn’t remember when she’d fallen out of the habit. She shrugged, then laughed. “I suppose I must have been doing it without thinking.”

Cassandra nodded, then visibly hesitated. “I… had hoped to speak with you before too many others arrive. It will become difficult to find privacy.”

“You’ve got me for now. What’s on your mind?” Irala did her best not to speculate and failed. Cassandra was usually much more direct than this. For something to be giving her pause, it had to involve emotions and likely, relationships. It wasn’t particularly hard to connect the dots from there.

“Irala… are you all right?”

She blinked. That was… simpler than Irala had expected. “I’m fine,” she answered, after what was probably too long a pause for that answer.

Cassandra didn’t look convinced, which made sense. Irala doubted she’d sounded convincing. “I know the two of you had become… close. I… cannot claim to know how you must feel. It may mean little, but I simply wish you to know that you are my friend, and I am here for you.”

“I… Cassandra…” there was suddenly a sharp keening sensation in her chest. “That’s… you don’t have to…”

“You did not have to be the Inquisitor, and yet here you are,” Cassandra took Irala by the hand and squeezed firmly. “Take heart and remain strong.”

She smiled, then, and just when Irala thought she was some measure towards getting herself mentally ready, she found herself choking back tears once more.

Mythal give her strength. She sorely needed it.


	3. Chapter 3

The following night, they had made it far enough out from Skyhold to be able to camp out in the open, underneath the stars. Though there was no longer snow upon the ground, the air still held a bite of cold, enough so that Irala was very grateful to see fires already blooming to life by the time she reached the bivouac. Now that she’d led the grand departure, Irala didn’t feel the need to be at the very front of the convoy, and had spent most of the day in perhaps the middle third, spending some quality time with Bull and his men. It was probably telling that she enjoyed the company of the rowdy mercenaries more than of the Inquistion’s… ugh, ‘faithful’. The Chargers checked their expectations at the door, and Irala did the same. More importantly, they didn’t treat her with any undue reverence, in spite of her rank; probably something to do with the fact she was friends with their boss. That apparently made her fair game.

Still, reaching camp meant that it was time to bid a reluctant farewell to most of the group. Cullen had made it very clear policy that Inquisition officers were to confer as frequently as possible, just to make sure everyone was on the same page. That grew more difficult the more widespread operations became, but was relatively simple while they were still travelling. No need for ravens or runners when everyone was staying in the same place. Irala found a spot a little apart from the other mounts and then climbed down from her hart, stroking his neck and murmuring that she would be back to feed him soon. The animal gave a noise that was very nearly a grumble and nosed her in the chest, then settled down.

Irala couldn’t help but grin. He was a smart little thing, as well as being a joy to ride when he deigned to follow instructions. He’d certainly been in a better mood today, now that Irala had changed out of her bulky armour. She’d swapped to leathers, simple and soft, with a halla design stitched into the chestpiece; still protective, but nowhere near as heavy and restrictive. Plate was for battle, not for riding in. It had taken her some time to grow accustomed to the additional weight; the dalish rarely used metal armour, and she’d had to adapt for several months. If put on the spot, Irala would have to say she preferred the heavier armour, if only because it suited the raw aggression of her fighting style better. Less time needing to be worried about the defence if the armour could be relied upon to glance a blow aside.

As she headed away from the hart and towards the nearest fire, Iron Bull fell in step with her, stretching and yawning. While he wasn’t technically an Inquisition soldier, he _was_ an officer, in a manner of speaking. Even mercenaries needed to make sure their men had the right orders, and the Chargers weren’t the only company on the Inquisition’s books, even if Bull was the only one who fought alongside Irala personally. In any case, it seemed like he was mentally already halfway through his supper, because he remained silent on their walk.

The first fire turned out to belong to the scouts, who’d shortly begin upping their pace and outstripping the rest of the convoy in order to establish a forward outpost. Figuring the meeting wouldn’t begin until the rest of the officers finished arriving, Irala and Bull stopped for a while to chat, telling Scout Harding to be careful, checking in on how the newer recruits were settling. By the time they left, Bull had slyly instigated some kind of bet about who could find the most landmarks in Dirthaveren. Irala didn’t even bother telling him off about that kind of thing anymore.

They heard Noell before they saw her, in the midst of recounting a story which appeared to involve an improbable number of beets.

“Of course, the Arl didn’t know about that, so the following evening, we all hear this scream from the baths. A few seconds later, he bursts into the room, arse-naked, and stained red from head-to-toe. He’d thought the ground beets were his bloody bath soaps!”

Those around the fire burst out laughing, and as they approached, Irala noted that the captain had a decent sized crowd; most of the officers were here already, it seemed. There were perhaps a dozen, although most of them Irala only vaguely recognised, after the fashion that she had seen them around Skyhold and perhaps even in the field, but didn’t have names to put to the faces. A few were completely unfamiliar, either new recruits with too much experience to waste in the rank and file, or those that had been promoted up from within. Irala had grown to prefer the latter camp. While in those early days, they’d desperately needed people with real combat experience and training, the Inquisition had stood on its own feet for years now. Putting outsiders in charge over those that had bled for the Inquisition for so long just struck Irala as unfair, to say nothing of how much resentment it could foster with the troops. In the end Irala had hammered out a compromise with Cullen; newcomers with experience could start out as officers, but they weren’t to be given higher ranks until they’d proven themselves.

The final category of officers at the fire was also the smallest; those that Irala both recognised and knew, to a greater or lesser extent. It consisted, other than Noell, of two people. The first was another dalish elf, an older man who had signed on after Irala became Inquisitor. Maylan was his name, and he was decent enough company when he wasn’t trying to grandmother her. He favoured her with a nod of his silvered head. The other was a red-headed young human named Thom. Back when they’d first met in Haven, he’d been a scrawny teenager whose armour looked about three sizes too big for him. He’d grown since, filled out, and Irala had been delighted to learn he’d made lieutenant. Someone who worked as hard as Thom deserved recognition for it.

“Inquisitooor!” called Noell, smiling broadly. “Come have a seat! We’re nearly ready!”

Well, good to see a couple of days on the road hadn’t dampened Noell’s enthusiasm any. Irala moved around the fire to sit cross-legged between Noell and Thom, the latter budging up a bit (a lot) to make room for Bull. On Noell’s opposite side was her mabari, lying down with his head propped on his front paws, silently watching. The captain idly scratched between his ears, and he emitted a low rumble of approval. Up close, it was clear that the mabari couldn’t fit the image of a war dog any better. Old scars criss-crossed his hide, tracing white lines across the tan fur, whilst his frame was thick with muscle.

Noell noticed her looking and outright beamed. “This is Dane, Inquisitor. Had him since he was a pup.”

“He looks tough,” Irala said carefully, leery of saying the wrong thing about dogs around a Fereldan.

Dane barked. Noell nodded. “Oh he is. I’ve seen him nearly take a man’s arm off.”

“Sometimes, they’re even the enemy,” Thom added dryly.

Noell laughed lustily. “Details, details.”

The conversation continued for a time, although most of the officers were obviously a little overawed by Irala’s presence. Even to many of the Inquisition’s leaders, she was a figure of wonder – perhaps more than ever, after the defeat of Corypheus. While truthfully Irala would rather be favoured than reviled, it was a reality that didn’t sit entirely comfortably with her. Perhaps it was because she could still remember the suspicion with which she’d been viewed back before she’d been someone ‘important’.

Others trickled in periodically, Noell acknowledging and greeting each of them by name, or at least a decent guess. Irala was beginning to see why Cullen had elevated her in the way that he had. She was gregarious, charismatic, and by all accounts, could fight, too. Cullen had a good head on his shoulders; he wouldn’t ignore such obvious potential.

“That’s almost everyone. Just waiting on… oh. There they are,” Noell’s enthusiasm, for once, was lacking.

Curious as to what could have provoked such a reaction, Irala followed the captain’s eyes until her gaze alighted on a figure swathed with furs. The style of dress was somewhat familiar, and it took Irala a moment to work out why; it was similar to how the Avvar shaman known as Sky Watcher dressed, though they were much smaller than he was.

…Irala hadn’t realised that the Inquisition counted more than one Avvar amongst its number, much less that they had an Avvar officer.

“Took you long enough, Elva,” said Noell.

The Avvar stopped for a moment, tipping back their hood to reveal a woman with snowy-blonde hair. “You put me in the rear guard. Captain.”

“So I did.”

Elva gave Noell a look of naked hostility as she took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. Irala watched the pair, bemused, then felt a hand on her shoulder. She glanced over to see Bull, who leaned close and murmured into her ear.

“Dunno what the beef is here, boss, but the Avvar is good. The boys worked with her back at that temple in the wilds.”

So… not a soldiering issue, then, if Elva was competent. Just when Noell was seeming too good to be true, turned out she was holding some kind of grudge. Irala didn’t want to interfere too much with the troops, but she reminded herself to investigate further next time she had an opportunity. Dissension in the ranks wasn’t a good way to start off an operation. Even if it was impossible for absolutely everyone to get along, Irala would take just working together.

The meeting passed with little of note to be discussed. One of the draft horses had pulled up lame, but swiftly been replaced by one of the spares. Otherwise they were making good pace under reasonable weather conditions. The troops were still in high spirits, there hadn’t been any fallings out, and miraculously, nobody had suffered from any stupid accidents. All in all, they’d made about as good a start as could be hoped.

Irala spent most of the discussion quietly observing, taking note of which officers were most talkative, who offered the best insights, who was eager to speak but not to listen. She knew that Bull would be doing the same, and a vastly superior job of it, at that. He invariably had more insights to share whenever they compared notes, though given it was him that started her off with the habit, she tried not to let it bother her. As much as Irala and her inner circle invariably wound up where the fighting was thickest, they would quickly find themselves in trouble without Inquisition forces around. Even the smallest scale operations these days included scouts and sentries, and that meant Irala had to be certain the backup was reliable. The troops hadn’t let her down yet; she hoped that trend would continue.

Noell spoke a lot, but she listened a lot, too. Perhaps it was excitement from being in charge of the military side of the excursion, or perhaps it was just her personality. The Fereldan asked questions too, peppering each speaker with them in order to, Irala realised, build up a fuller understanding of their perspectives. She did keep glancing anxiously at Irala though, like she was expecting to be chastised or corrected. Maybe Noell was seeking her approval. However, Irala only really spoke to comment on the direct capabilities of her and her closest companions. She wasn’t an awful strategist, but she had nothing to say on matters of baggage trains and supply lines, and there were few things more irritating than an inexpert opinion voiced for the sake of voicing it.

Thom was probably the next most active in the conversation, along with a dwarf with a tattooed face and a severe Orlesian woman. The lattermost, Irala had to remind herself not to take an immediate dislike to, as difficult as it was. They were all part of the Inquisition now, Irala couldn’t afford to have a chip on her shoulder about chevaliers. She bit her tongue from saying anything aggressive, even as the woman’s demeanour and style of speech made it clearer and clearer that a chevalier was exactly what she was. Dread Wolf take those murderers.

Forcing her attention from the Orlesian, Irala found herself settling her eyes on the Avvar again. She hadn’t said a word since arriving for the meeting, and with chin propped on tucked-in knees, it took Irala a few seconds to ascertain that Elva was actually paying attention. In spite of how still she was sitting, her eyes were active and mobile, darting between each new speaker as they joined the conversation.

Irritatingly, that didn’t go any way towards unravelling the little spat between Elva and Noell. Perhaps Irala was reading too much into it; wouldn’t be the first time she’d misjudged a disagreement.

In any case, Irala came out the other side of the meeting knowing a little more about her officers than she had at the start. That alone made it worthwhile. She bade her goodnights to the group and set off back for the makeshift corral for the mounts. She owed the hart some attention, lest he attempt to dump her on the ground tomorrow. Bull followed, unleashing an enormous yawn.

“Mm. Always sleep like a baby when I’ve been riding.”

“If only your snoring was baby sized.”

Bull barked a short ‘ha!’ of a laugh. “Still haven’t let that go?”

“Bull, you managed to drown out a _storm_. No I haven’t let it go.”

“Luckily for you, I’m gonna be bunking with the boys,” he paused, gave Irala a sidelong look. “You gonna be sharing?”

Irala winced. Last night had been rough; although she’d nearly grown used to sleeping alone in Skyhold, being back out in the field was a whole new adaptation. She kept rolling over to squirm close to somebody who wasn’t there. “Probably with Cassandra,” she replied softly.

Bull nodded. “Hey, I know it’s not easy. Just lemme know if you want something to hit again,” he smirked. “Of course, no promises I won’t hit you back this time.”

She laughed, then thumped him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

There was a glint in Bull’s eye. “That’s the last one you get for free, boss. Next time we spar, I’m dropping you on your head.”

Irala spread her arms wide. “Bring it on.”

Admittedly, she was probably asking for it when he grabbed her around the waist and slung her bodily into the paddock.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Irala dropped back even further in the convoy. One part the dreaded appearances, to be seen by more of the soldiers, but three parts because there were some other people she wanted to check in on. There was a lot of marching to do before they arrived in Dirthaveren; couldn’t have anybody feeling left out.

Dorian Pavus was riding alone, perched atop a magnificent white courser. Though his attention was at first entirely on the reins, he glanced up as Irala slowed her hart’s pace, allowing him to reach her side before she started forwards again. He gasped, eyes widening.

“Good heavens, who is this apparition I see before me? They bear a strange resemblance to someone I think I knew once, but it’s been such a long time I can scarcely remember them.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you live off of melodrama, Dorian.”

Dorian feigned a swoon. “Me? Melodramatic? Perish the thought. I had simply began to wonder if my dearest of companions had forgotten about me, so long has it been.”

“Dorian, you are impossible. And we had dinner together three days ago.”

“So long has it been! When last have we ridden together? When last have we fought side by side?” Dorian swayed exaggeratedly in his saddle.

Irala held up a hand. “I do not wish to burden you, Lord Pavus,” she began solemnly. “But I am afraid I have some shocking news. As hard as this will be to believe, I do in fact have more than one friend.”

“Nonsense, out of the question. With a friend as superlative as me, who would think to seek out others?”

She snorted, taking a moment to survey their surroundings. Shockingly, more hills. “Whatever lets you sleep at night, _lethallin._ ”

There was a sudden pause. Irala glanced back over to Dorian, and found that he was giving her a strange look. “What is it?”

Dorian blinked, then shrugged. “Oh, nothing of import. It’s simply been a while since you last used elven in conversation.”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” though it was a strange point to consider. Irala was proud of how much of the old language she’d managed to learn; on a few occasions, she’d very nearly succeeded at carrying on a conversation with Solas in elven.

As much as the man had held some pretty insufferable opinions about the People at times, Irala still missed his company. Solas had always been possessed of a unique point of view, and she hoped he remained safe, wherever he was now.

Dorian winked at her. “Well, don’t feel the need to overcompensate. I might begin to think of you as rustic again.”

Irala pointedly swore at him.

Dorian snorted a laugh. “Somehow I feel your elders may not approve of the manner you choose to educate me in your language. I know a handful of elven words and almost all of them are curses.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because nobody stops to shout ‘you’re looking wonderfully fashionable today’ at the Venatori they’re in the process of hacking to bits.”

“Fair point, but-“

Irala was cut off by a cry of alarm from further down the convoy. A cry that was swiftly followed by others, until the rear of the procession had descended into a cacophony of yelling and screaming. Elgar’nan! Were they under attack? Surely not so close to Skyhold!

And yet they’d thought the same in Haven.

Dorian’s staff was already in his hand, his fingers crackling with magical energy. Irala gritted her teeth and drew her own weapon, a simple longsword. She hadn’t expected to need one of her runemarked blades so soon… meant she would have to do this the old fashioned-

A rather loud bleat resounded from the centre of the uproar.

-way?

“Oh you canNOT be serious!” Irala snarled, as the bulky brown fluff of a charging druffalo appeared behind them. Before even looking, she knew who she’d see clinging to the animal’s back, wide-eyed and whooping.

Sera.

Of. Course.

Irala could handle pranks from Sera. She’d been the victim of more than a few, abetted several more. This, though? This went from embarrassing-but-harmless to complete and utter chaos. In the middle of a damned march.

“Dorian,” Irala growled, guiding the hart around with a hand on his head. “Give me a barrier. A strong one, please.”

“Do you think this wise-“

“It isn’t. Barrier, Dorian. Now.”

Dorian sighed. “As you wish. Please try not to make too much of a spectacle.”

Irala was already urging the hart into motion, and a moment later, she felt the telltale subtle weight of magical protection fall over her, skin shining a translucent blue. Her mount snorted with displeasure at her insistence, but quickly began to pick up speed, heading back down the convoy and towards the onrushing druffalo.

Its rider – if what Sera was doing could be called riding – didn’t notice Irala’s approach, too taken up with the type of wild cackling that had danced through Irala’s dreams for months. The giggling that she so sorely missed hearing emanating from Sera’s room in the Herald’s Rest. Whatever. What. Ever. Irala was too pissed off to pine over what she was missing. Was this some kind of a game to her? Corypheus was gone, so she could go back to ‘having her fun’, regardless of the target?

It was enough to drive her crazy, if Irala hadn’t give up on trying to understand Sera a long time ago.

Closer and closer the two animals came, and now that the distance had been lessened, Irala steered her hart subtly to the right, away from the convoy. The further back Irala went, the more of a mess the wagons were, swerved and tilted off the road, horses bolted, reins snarled. A fine mess this was.

As they neared the point of intersection, Irala took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. The hart began to veer off, and she knew that was her cue. She _dove_ from the animal’s back – heard a cry of alarm from above as Sera finally caught on to what she was doing, and-

Crash.

The druffalo’s front legs collided with Irala’s tumbling form with all the force of, well… a charging druffalo. Every ounce of air was crushed from her ribcage, and she snapped backward in mid-air, an instant burst of pain spattering across her entire body. Dorian’s barrier rippled against her form, struggling to absorb the impact… then held. The druffalo gave a lowing moo of alarm and for one glorious instant, Irala saw it flipping forward, _over_ her body.

While her bones certainly weren’t going to thank her for this, the sight of an animal that size doing a somersault would be permanently etched into Irala’s memory.

And then the moment was over.

Irala hit the ground, bouncing hard. The barrier coughed out of existence. There was a _thud_ as the druffalo impacted a second later, still bleating. A very Sera-esque voice yelped a dwindling ‘Fuuuuuuck!’ into the air.

For several seconds, Irala lay still. Oh Mythal, oh Andruil. That… that had not been the best idea she’d ever had. Pain wracked her form, crying out in lusty protest of the abuse that she’d just opted into. Her chest felt worst. Worse than the time she’d been kicked by a halla – she could hardly breathe. It would have probably been easier to figure out which parts of her _didn’t_ hurt.

…The back of her left knee. Also her jaw.

She attempted to roll over. Her body informed her of its objections to this idea, and she fell back onto her face.

Okay, this was fine. The ground was alright for now.

At least until a voice utterly consumed with rage resounded from behind her.

“What the FUCK was that!? You- you absolute QUEEN SHIT!”

Well, there went any hope of Sera thinking that Irala’s stunt was crazy enough to be funny.

Irala got an arm underneath herself and managed to push it into enough leverage to flip herself over. Her aching muscles and bones found an entire host of new ways to indicate just how horribly they were hurting.

Standing above her was, of course, Sera. The other elf’s face was red and flushed with anger, and Irala couldn’t help but wince as she caught sight of a huge gash running the length of Sera’s forearm. Evidence was rapidly mounting that _flinging herself into a rampaging druffalo_ had not been a good idea.

That’s what she got for making plans while mad with her ex.

“Don’t just- don’t just lie there! What the fuck is your problem, Buc-“ Sera snapped her mouth shut, shook her head wildly.

“I was stopping-“ Irala was seized by a coughing fit, wracking her ribs. “I was –stopping- that druffalo from wrecking any more of our damn convoy!”

“I had it under control!”

“You were _riding it!_ ”

“Steering it, you arse!” Sera was breathing raggedly, hand clutched to the bleeding wound. Beyond her, Irala could see the dazed druffalo feebly kicking its legs into the air.

“ _Fenedhis lasa!_ ” Irala spat. This was just typical; Creators forbid that Sera ever take responsibility, or admit that she might have made a mistake. Her way always had to be right.

Sheer anger pushed through the pain that was still crushing down upon Irala, and suddenly, she found herself back on her feet. Unsteady, swaying, and with seemingly every nerve in her body screaming bloody murder, but standing.

“What does that mean in normal? ‘I’m an amazing pointy-ear forest nobber’?”

Irala opened her mouth, staggered, regathered her balance. “Not everything is about me being dalish, Sera!”

“Could have fooled me! You’re the one that said you’re so bloody elfy you have to have it on your stupid face!”

Irala shut her eyes and let out a seething breath. “I’m not going to take a lecture from someone who just delayed an entire operation for a joke!”

Sera scowled and made an obscene gesture. “It’s not my fault some idiot made Commooder bolt!”

Commooder.

Irala elected to ignore that one, instead taking a tottering step forward, using her height and size advantage to lean over Sera. What traces of composure she’d had left were already gone. “That’s the problem with you, Sera! You never think! You’re so damned selfish! It’s always about what _you_ want, not about how it’ll affect anyone-“

Sera’s fist flashed out.

Scratch ‘jaw’ from the list of places which didn’t hurt.

Irala dropped, head snapping backwards. The ground greeted her like an old friend as stars danced in front of her eyes.

She couldn’t, for a moment, process what had just happened.

Sera just hit her.

Sera just-

Half of her wanted to leap back to her feet and return the favour. The other half was on the verge of a flood of stunned tears. This wasn’t- had she really made Sera hate her so much?

The former half received a significant boost when a kick landed square in Irala’s already-battered ribs, the latter a boost of its own as Irala heard Sera’s ragged breaths dissolve into sobbing.

“Stupid, you s-stupid…” Sera sniffled. A moment later, a new voice broke onto the scene.

“Maker’s balls, Sera! C’mon, come here,” Blackwall appeared in Irala’s field of view for just long enough to grasp Sera around the waist, half hug and half restraint, pulling her back and away. A tide of curses emerged, but foul language aside, Sera seemed to allow herself to be removed from the area.

A few minutes of quiet, broken only by the stunned murmuring of Inquisition troops that had witnessed the altercation.

“Would this be a bad time to say ‘I told you so’?” Dorian crouched alongside her.

Irala rolled onto her side and groaned.

Why were these people her friends again?


	4. Chapter 4

Druffalo day, as it came to be known, did a real number on the general mood of the troops. Irala would have liked to attribute the subdued atmosphere to the delays caused by the animal’s rampage, but she knew better.

No, seeing the Inquisitor and one of her inner circle get into a blazing argument, get into a _fight_ … that would about do it. Irala was supposed to be acting as an example, and there she was, letting her emotions get the better of her, being rash. Again. If she’d just waited, instead of jumping to conclusions, then maybe Sera would have managed to divert the druffalo from causing any further damage. If she hadn’t automatically assumed the worst because she was still upset…

She couldn’t even blame Sera for losing her temper, not really. Irala’s kamikaze leap had sent her to the surgeon’s tent for stitches. Just because Irala hadn’t punched Sera didn’t mean she hadn’t hurt her, too. And it wasn’t as if Irala had stayed perfectly cool. No, she’d been shouting and screaming just as much as Sera had.

Elgar’nan… why couldn’t she just use her brain for once? It was like every time Sera showed up, a red mist descended over her and she completely lost control. Now she’d let her relationship issues spill out and start affecting the Inquisition as a whole. Spats like this were to be kept behind closed doors, not thrashed out in public.

Irala’s injuries, along with more than a little shame, saw her bring up the rear of the convoy two days later, when she was fit enough to ride again. She’d refused more than minimal magical treatment for the network of dark bruising that had erupted across her body, figuring that it was appropriate recompense for the sheer idiocy of what she’d done. The hart seemed to appreciate a more sedate pace, anyway, and he even was a little more gentle than usual, perhaps sensing just how sore Irala was. Regardless, being at the back gave her plenty of time to her own thoughts, let her avoid well-meaning and concerned friends… along with those that wanted to give her a piece of their mind.

Cassandra was to be avoided at all costs at this point.

So thoroughly miserable and wrapped up in her own personal hell of aching soreness was Irala, that it was three hours into the ride before she realised that she wasn’t alone. There was the sound of another set of hooves steadily eating up the ground. With a twitch of the ears, Irala finally sat up in her saddle to glance over to her right, curious.

Right alongside her was a horse of a breed she’d never seen before. Its coat was long and shaggy, resembling the wiry wool of a goat. Or a gigantic walking mop. Riding it was none other than Elva, the Avvar sergeant. The unfamiliarity of the horse clicked into place; it had to be native to the mountainous regions the Avvar called home, one of the areas the Inquisition hadn’t had any real call to venture out to. Which, now that Irala considered it, only increased the oddness of Elva’s presence. How had she even heard about the Inquisition? The last set of Avvar to seek them out had been trying to pick a fight, not offer their assistance.

Well, second-to-last. Irala had tried to block out the goat-throwing incident from her memory.

A pair of dark brown eyes was looking back at her as Irala’s gaze swept up to Elva’s face, which was half obscured by a scarf. However, eye contact was broken in an instant, Elva turning her head away and to the side, hiding herself from view behind her hood.

“Sergeant?” Irala ventured.

Elva jolted, sitting up ramrod straight. “Yes?” her voice was soft.

“What are you doing so far back in the formation?”

Elva shifted uneasily in the saddle. “I was assigned to the rear guard again today, Inquisitor.”

Irala thought about trying to reassure Elva with a smile, but the woman was apparently committed to staring off in the opposite direction. “I’m only back here because I’m hurt. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Another pause, then Elva shot a furtive look back at Irala. “I can’t endanger you, Inquisitor. I’d bring shame to Hakkon if I neglected my responsibilities to my comrades.”

“Hakkon?” Irala hadn’t heard that name before.

Elva turned again, and for a moment, her eyes were wide. “Have you lowlanders not…” she hesitated. “Sorry. I know the gods of these lands are not the gods of my own. I just forget, sometimes.”

“Don’t worry,” Irala managed a smile, even as the topic twisted a knife that had not yet been removed. “It’s often the same with shems and my gods. It’s always Maker this, Andraste that…”

The Avvar blinked, her eyes showing her surprise again. “You don’t follow this Maker I hear of? I thought your Inquisition invoked his name.”

“Well, yes, but-“ Irala sighed. “It does. I don’t. I believe in the Creators. Elven gods. Andraste… I believe in her as a person. Not as the bride of the Maker.”

“I see,” Elva fell quiet. Irala was beginning to get the impression that the other woman wasn’t much for conversation.

Irala took the opportunity to scrutinise Elva further. She wore no concession to the Inquisition’s uniform; not over her furs, at least. The bulk of her clothes made it difficult to say how she was built, though she was around Irala’s height, putting them both at some ways taller than the average elf. She did, however, have a large maul slung across her back, which was much more telling than attempting to estimate Elva’s size. Nobody without serious muscle power would bother trying to wield a weapon like that one. Even Irala, who was perfectly comfortable with a greatsword and waraxe, would hesitate before taking up something that required so much brute force behind each swing.

Again, she spared a moment to wonder what had brought Elva to them. She had to be a fairly recent recruit; Irala wouldn’t have missed somebody quite so distinctive for long. All she knew was what Bull had told her; that Elva had fought alongside the Chargers in the Arbor Wilds, which at least helped to narrow down the range when she-

Oh Dread Wolf take it. There wasn’t anything better to do to pass the time.

“Elva, can I ask you something?”

She stiffened again. “Of course,” she said, in a tone that meant ‘please don’t’.

Irala stopped for a moment. She wasn’t in the business of pressing people for answers which they didn’t want to give. That being said, it would make things even more awkward if she broke off now. “There aren’t many Avvar in the Inquisition. What made you decide to join?”

If anything, Elva went even more rigid. It was like looking at a statue in the saddle. “After the sky was torn apart, we prayed to our Lady for guidance,” she began slowly. She still wasn’t looking at Irala. “The augur told us… he said that the portents were clouded,” Elva cast a glance upwards, focusing on the scar in the heavens where the Breach had once been.

Irala felt a surge of sympathy. While she wasn’t familiar with the beliefs of the Avvar, she recalled enough to know that one of their deities was the Lady of the _Skies._ She could only imagine how horrifying it would be to see something like the Breach while holding the skies sacred.

Void, Irala hadn’t been precisely thrilled about it herself.

“What did you do then?” Irala prompted, after the silence began to stretch.

“My hold often trades with dwarves. One of their caravans brought word of the hole in the sky, calling it ‘the Breach’. They spoke of a group trying to mend it. Your Inquisition.”

“And so you decided to seek us out?”

Elva nodded almost too quickly.  “I’m glad to have helped.”

Irala paused, giving the other woman a sidelong look. There was a hole in Elva’s story; that being that they’d sealed the Breach in Haven, before they’d even known of the threat Corypheus posed. Elva certainly hadn’t been with them in Haven, which left a substantial gap in the Avvar’s motivations, considering she’d claimed to hear of the Breach, not the Venatori or their ‘Elder One’. If indeed she’d only come to the Inquisition to resolve the tear in the veil, she would have had no reason to venture to Skyhold.  However, in the face of Elva’s obvious discomfort surrounding the topic, Irala decided to let the subject drop. This wasn’t an interrogation, and Irala somehow doubted that the Avvar was any kind of spy.

They rode together in comparative silence for another hour. At the corner of her eye, Irala continually caught sight of Elva stealing little glances at her, before looking away again just as quickly. It was confusing and entertaining in equal measure. Was Elva just shy? Maybe she wasn’t sure how to act around someone of Irala’s rank. Back when Irala had first found herself amongst the shemlen, she’d completely lost track of everyone’s ranks and titles. It had taken longer than she cared to admit to realise that ‘Commander’ wasn’t actually Cullen’s name.

“The pain on the outside doesn’t match the pain on the inside. Bruised, battered, beaten, and still less than the regret and shame. Should have thought, should have known.”

“Cole…”

Irala hadn’t seen the arrival of the skinny boy with the wide-brimmed hat, but sure enough, there he was on the opposite side of her. He sat awkwardly in the saddle of his horse, as if he was worried it would somehow vanish from underneath him.

“Sorry. Sometimes the words fall out,” Cole shifted, turning to look at her, peering from underneath his hat. “Usually you’re quiet. Calm heart, heavy, hale, wholesome, holding on to home,” his eyes flickered, and his shoulders drooped a little. “Sorry. I did it again.”

Irala managed a smile. While he could be intrusive at times, it was difficult to get angry with Cole. He was _elgar_ in the shape of a boy, or rather, a young man. He didn’t mean anything by picking up on her thoughts… though that didn’t precisely make hearing him speaking them out loud any easier. “It’s fine, Cole. I just… I have some things to work through.”

“Yes,” he paused, and then leaned out to the side, reaching with a gangly arm to pat Irala awkwardly on the shoulder. “It isn’t your fault. You told the truth,” for a few seconds, he seemed to gaze through her. “I think it would have been worse if you hadn’t,” he said finally. “Well, mostly worse. I don’t think you would have jumped in front of a druffalo.”

“Cole, did you just tell a joke?”

“I… no? There was a joke?”

Irala laughed. “Never mind, Cole. Never mind.”

“Oh. All right,” Cole’s eyes dropped, then suddenly went back up again, past Irala, to Elva. “Hello. I’m Cole. You’re- wait, no,” he looked away, mumbling to himself. “Varric says I’m supposed to wait for the other person to tell me. It’s weird to introduce other people for them, kid.”

Elva, to Irala’s surprise, was actually studying Cole closely, eyes narrowed. The frown, however, disappeared in an instant as those eyes lit up. It was difficult to tell, but Irala thought she may have been smiling. “I am Elva. You are… you are a spirit, are you not?”

“Yes,” Cole sounded a little concerned. “Am I doing a bad job of being like a person?”

“Cole, you can’t do a bad job of that. You _are_ a person,” Irala said firmly.

Elva held up a hand. “I meant no offence. Your manner of speech… I was simply reminded of the augur of my hold. When the spirits speak through him, they sound something like you.”

“Firelight dancing in his eyes, he speaks with a voice that is his and not his, that is ours and not ours. Guardians giving greetings and guidance. Amazing and terrifying. Kind smiles – do not worry, child, he seeks advice. They are not to be feared.”

Elva swallowed audibly. She blinked several times, attempting to regain her bearings. “I… uh… yes. You’re… you’re … surprisingly … insightful.”

Irala reached out and flicked the brim of Cole’s hat. “Don’t scare the officers, Cole.”

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “It’s harder when I stick to them. People remember more, now. Sometimes being real makes it easier, sometimes not,” he gave Irala a long look. “Like you and Sera. Beliefs aren’t real, but you believe so hard you make them real, and that makes the wounds deeper.”

“Hakkon’s axe bites cruellest into bonds unseen,” Elva intoned.

Irala winced. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken about Hakkon,” she said, pointedly changing the subject.

Elva nodded. “Hakkon Wintersbreath, Lord of War and Winter,” she spoke the title with considerable reverence. “He guides us in warfare and our raids on the-“ Elva hesitated, and if Irala wasn’t mistaken, a pink tinge rose up in her cheeks. “On the lowlands.”

Irala shrugged. The description reminded her faintly of Elgar’nan. “I’m dalish. Whoever you raided, it wasn’t us.”

“Dalish?”

Irala hesitated, taken off guard. When was the last time she had to tell someone who the dalish were?

“They wear their gods on their faces, huddling around campfires. Sombre memories, stories told again and again, remembering a home broken by hatred. They hold tight to their history, to treasure and tell and hold and hope that one day their dreams will dawn and restore their Dales.”

Suddenly, Irala found it difficult to speak around a lump in her throat. She was used to Cole projecting outwards, talking about the thoughts of others. To hear him speak about something to which she had such an intimate connection was disarming. Painful, even.

“My apologies, Inquisitor. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, you didn’t,” Irala shook her head. “My people are often very reluctant to talk about ourselves. Perhaps we should do it more. So much of our lore gets lost in the retelling…” she shook her head again, more firmly, as it to clear it. “Anyway. As Cole was saying, the dalish are elves who keep to our old ways and our old gods.”

“And this is the reason for the…” Elva made a vague gesture at face level.

“My _vallaslin_. Blood writing. It is a rite of adulthood amongst the dalish.”

“Ah!” Elva’s eyes lit up. “I understand. Our hold also has such rituals.”

Irala found herself smiling. The Avvar’s earnest enthusiasm was a little infectious, and it was good to see her emerging from her shell a little. Not quite the shrinking violet she’d first seemed, although Irala did note that she was still hiding her face.

There was a nudge on her left shoulder. Irala raised an eyebrow at Cole, who was frowning with concentration. “You should do it,” he said, after a few seconds. “You aren’t sure, but you should.”

“Cole I think I missed where that sentence started.”

“Oh. _Hahren_ Gaila’s smile, soft and sensitive, sometimes stern. _Da’len_ , let me tell you of our people,” Cole’s head bobbed. “She would be happy to know you remember.”

Irala regarded him silently. He had a knack for digging up thoughts that people weren’t even aware that they were having, and now that she considered it, thinking of her clan _had_ reminded her of the old stories and songs. She’d just been keeping it to herself; singing had been something she’d done when there were fewer people around, when travelling was more intimate and she was more wrapped up in her own thoughts. It felt odd to be considering doing so with so many others in the vicinity.

“You’re worried about them. The weight on your shoulders, the worrying winding and wending through you. You think you let them down, by letting them know you’re a person,” Cole tilted his head to the side, as if listening. “You can be a person and a … and a _thing_ at the same time. You can make that person into a friendly voice, if you want to. You don’t have to only let them see the bad.”

After a long moment, Irala laughed. It went on for several seconds, loud and hearty. Cole definitely had his own way of talking about things, insightful and confusing in equal measure. But… perhaps he was right. Really, it couldn’t hurt. She’d already made a complete fool of herself in front of the Inquisition once in the past couple of days; peak idiocy had already been reached.

Irala closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then began to sing.

 

* * *

 

 

One song bled into another, and to her surprise, Irala did actually start to feel a little better. Most of them were in the elven language – or as much of it as she could remember, and Cole took the opportunity to translate as she went along. Well, translate from elven to Cole-speak, anyway, which involved more explaining the emotions of the tales than it did directly saying each word. That made sense; Irala wasn’t certain how Cole’s understanding of language worked, but she imagined he was _feeling_ more than listening to the songs.

She recited what she could remember. Childhood rhymes, stories of the gods, the tale of Fen’Harel’s betrayal, a lullaby that her mother had sang to her when she was young. At one stage, feeling daring, she attempted to sing one of the tunes that the bard that resided in Skyhold had written, but in elven.

That one didn’t work so well. Certain words didn’t translate precisely from one language to the other, and it was difficult to maintain the exact melody when elven had different stresses and different syllables. Still, each time she stumbled, she found herself laughing and smiling because of the sheer silliness of it all.

She’d missed singing, she realised. Why had she become so reluctant to let her voice out? Irala certainly wasn’t self-conscious, not in that regard, and she knew that she was at least… listenable. And yet when she thought back, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d passed the time with song. Was it reluctance to be so… so dalish in front of all the humans and chantrygoers? They definitely liked to give voice to their own hymns. Constantly.

At length, Irala trailed off. The hart snorted underneath her, and she idly stroked his neck.

“ _Ir abelas,_ but that’s enough singing for now, my grumpy friend.”

The hart made another rumbling noise.

“He likes your voice!” Cole said, delighted.

“He has poor taste,” Irala replied. “You’re no bard, _ma’falon_ …” she laughed to herself. “You do need a name. Perhaps Bard can be it.”

Snort. Cole giggled softly. “He’s noisy for an animal.”

Irala had the sense that he wasn’t talking about the actual sounds Bard was making.

The silence that fell for a time over the three was a companionable one. Elva seemed to have grown more at ease with both Irala and Cole, and the spirit was always willing enough to be distracted by whatever passing thoughts he could overhear. For her own part, Irala found that the pain of her bruises had eased off a little, though whether that was just because she’d become desensitised to the constant ache, it was difficult to say.

Perhaps an hour later, just as Irala was beginning to think that it was about time somebody called for a halt, her ears pricked up. A faint humming was coming from alongside her. Carefully, bit by bit, Irala turned her head towards Elva.

Elva’s lips were slowly moving, and as Irala looked on, the tune went from hums to a soft ‘la la la…’. The melody was unfamiliar, both unlike Irala's own elven tunes, and bearing little resemblance to anything she’d heard from a shem before, either. Slow, but not solemn. It almost struck her as… hopeful? Tough to read anything more than that from just inflection; although that wasn’t going to stop her from trying. Irala didn’t dare make a sound as she listened. Like stalking a frightened rabbit, make the slightest of noise, and she could spook, losing her prey-

She was taking this analogy a little too far.

Point was, Elva, even without words, had a great voice, startlingly so. She wasn’t a Maryden, but Maryden was a _minstrel_ ; singing was quite literally her job. There were some hidden depths to this particular sergeant, it seemed.

…Apparently, between Elva and Noell, the Singquistion back at Skyhold could stand to gain some more recruits.

“We’re making camp!”

The call travelled its way down the convoy. Elva jumped, faltering in mid note, and stopped her song.

Elgar’nan! Just when it was getting good!

Irala quickly averted her gaze, finding herself inexplicably embarrassed, as if she’d intruded upon a private moment. Elva had been singing pretty quietly, after all, and not even proper words, at that. If it wasn’t for Irala’s sharp ears, she might not have even heard her in the first place.

She found her eyes settling on Cole, off to her left. He _smiled_ at her.

For the love of- Cole wasn’t supposed to be capable of being a smartass!

Irala was just enjoying the shared appreciation of singing.

That. Was. All.


	5. Chapter 5

Irala’s morning wakeup call was brought to her by a very special edition of leg cramps. No sooner had she opened her eyes than her calves seized up, contracting like they’d been bitten in half by a demon, tied back together, and then used as a jump rope.

Falon’din help her, this was worse than eating a necromantic curse square to the face. At least she was able to purge that kind of magical-

Her stomach abruptly decided it wanted to join the cramping party. That was the only warning she got – her eyes widened and started hacking, retching, coughing up her guts into her bedroll. Bile rose in her throat, her tongue and mouth barren and dusty. Ugh. Gods! Irala felt as if she’d swallowed half a desert, and that all the most disgusting parts of it wanted to come back up again.

Another heaving retch, and Irala’s shoulders shook with the intensity of the spasm that ran through her body, rippling out from her abdomen. Again she choked, tears springing into her eyes as the queasy sensation spread up from her lower body and traversed her chest, throat, burying itself deep in the centre of her skull. Had she eaten something rotten last night?

“Irala! Are you all right!?” the voice sounded simultaneously very far away and far too loud. Irala’s head pounded, throbbing sickeningly. Her eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Strong hands gripped her, rolling her over, and she struggled to concentrate on who they belonged to through blurred vision.

“My friend! Can you hear me?”

“C…Cassandra?” Irala croaked, even her own speech sending a fresh assault of pain through her senses. “I… I need…” she was rasping, so, so dry. “W…water… pl…” a fresh wave of coughing overtook her.

An indistinct sound buzzed at the edges of her hearing and the dark shape that might have been Cassandra moved away. Had she spoken? Irala thought that must be it.

Elgar’nan, this was an order of magnitude more painful than the worst hangover she’d ever had, after attempting to match Bull drink for drink. And Irala definitely hadn’t drunk any alcohol last night; she always avoided it while on business.

The blurry figure returned, pushing something to Irala’s mouth. She blinked, hard, and the fuzziness resolved itself into Cassandra, offering a waterskin. Gratefully, Irala leaned her head forward and did her best to drink. Her throat cracked as cool water slid down it, taking the faintest edge off the horrible dryness coating her gullet. Again, her stomach uneasily flip-flopped, and Irala couldn’t help spluttering, spilling water from the corners of her mouth.

She was still thirsty. So _thirsty_. There was something wrong with the water, something that she couldn’t place properly. It should taste… different.

“Irala, are you well?”

She laughed and immediately regretted it. The sound and vibration felt fit to split her skull in half. Irala grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut, head pounding in time with her racing pulse. No, no she most definitely was _not_ well.

“Try to remain still. I shall send for a healer-“

Irala caught Cassandra by the arm as the seeker attempted to rise. She thought about shaking her head, but thankfully stopped herself in time. She’d spent too long with the doctors recently to be happy about calling them out again, especially when she was only suffering from a little sickness. Irala had faced down dragons, darkspawn and demons, and she was still kind of scared of the reproving glares she received each time she reported to the medical wagon.

“Irala…” Cassandra frowned at her. “You should not be ashamed –“

“Just… just get me… flask… from my pack…” there was an elfroot draught in there. That would make her feel better. Elfroot fixed everything.

Irala _heard_ her friend rolling her eyes. Nevertheless, Cassandra turned around and began to rummage in Irala’s bag. Thankfully there wasn’t anything too embarrassing in there; the horse had long since bolted on keeping her flower-pressing hobby a secret.

Cassandra had honest-to-Dirthamen _giggled_ when she’d learned that Irala liked to pick flowers. Even now, even through the aching fog clouding her head, the memory was enough to make her mildly affronted. Flowers were just… nice, and Irala liked to take mementos of places she’d travelled to. That wasn’t anything to be ashamed of!

There was a hollow thunk. Irala’s ears pricked up. Cassandra paused.

“Is this… your philter in here?”

Her philter.

Filled with… filled with _lyrium_.

Irala’s guts twisted, the queasiness persisting. If anything, her headache amplified, her parched throat ached ever more desperately to be quenched. She was so thirsty, and Cassandra – Cassandra had the philter. She needed it. She needed a drink so badly. Not water, she needed her lyrium.

“Irala? Irala are you listening to me?”

She blinked once, twice. Cassandra had been saying something. Asking her a question? Not that question, a different one, something about… It was hard to think over the sound of how empty she felt. She nodded slowly, ponderously. Her head weighed a thousand tons.

“Irala. When was the last time you took lyrium?”

The word sang between her ears. Irala’s heart thrilled to hear it. Lyrium! Well, every day of course; that was just part of her daily routine. she must have taken it… must have taken it… yesterday?

Wait. No. She’d been on the doctor’s wagon. Same with the day before. And previously she’d been…

Oh. Oh Creators. She’d missed four doses.

There was a tremor in Irala’s hands. She eyed them with fascination. They seemed to fade in and out of sight, depending on how much her eyes would cooperate.

“Irala!”

Oh. Right. She hadn’t actually answered Cassandra.

Irala looked at her hands again. They’d be able to remind her how words worked.

“A… a while.”

“Maker’s breath. Here, allow me,” Cassandra reached down, and there was a click, sending sparks across Irala’s mind. She let out a tremulous breath as her stomach clenched, and clenched again. Cassandra turned back around, a small phial in her hand, and… and everything went a little fuzzy for a moment.

Next thing Irala knew, she was gulping desperate mouthfuls of lyrium. The second it flowed down her throat, she began to feel better. Her stomach settled, her throat moistened, and even the cramps in her muscles began to ease.

The philter dropped from her fingers, clinking onto the ground beneath the tent. The pulsing pain behind her eyes ebbed away, and Irala found the blurring sharpening steadily into focus.

The first thing she saw was Cassandra’s concerned face hovering over her.

“My friend. Are you… are you all right?”

Lucidity returned at a glacial pace. Words flowed back into comprehension like the pouring of honey. “I…” Irala gritted her teeth, hard. She swallowed, feeling the aftertaste of the lyrium in the back of her throat. Even that faintest of reminders sent prickling electricity down her spine, fired up and energetic, ready to … to take on the world. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, in a voice much smaller than the strength she now felt in her system.

Cassandra sat down alongside her with a gentle sigh. A touch awkwardly, her hand reached out to rub Irala’s back. The seeker had never been much for offering comfort, but Irala appreciated the effort. “It is not healthy for you to fall out of routine, Irala. Such withdrawals are a needless strain on your health.”

“I… I understand,” Cassandra’s words had sound reasoning, but Irala couldn’t help but feel unnerved by them. This situation was far too familiar. Far too much like what Cullen had gone through a year or so ago as he attempted to come _off_ lyrium, the selfsame substance Irala had opted into taking.

At the time, it had made sense. Corypheus was a mage, and the venatori counted a large number of mages amongst their ranks, had been known to summon demons… even the red templars could be nullified to an extent by a templar of their own. It was a strategic choice for Irala to specialise in the way that she had.

It had… it had just made sense.

Still, she hadn’t been taking lyrium for that long. There was no way that she could have developed a dependency on it. Cullen’s struggles had come after years – a decade – of taking the substance. Irala had begun training in templar techniques perhaps six months ago, started on lyrium a little less than that. The sickness was just her body acclimatising to being back on the road, and yes, missing a few doses of lyrium probably hadn’t helped, but she was worrying herself over nothing. Creators, she'd been under the care of a physician just a short while ago; was it any wonder she was suffering from some lingering aches and pains?

Fatigue had weakened her a little, she was fine. It stood to reason that lyrium, which always made her feel more energetic, would also help quell illness. Anyway, if Irala had managed to forget about taking it for several days, it clearly couldn’t be that important to her. An addict wouldn't just ignore their fix, and therefore, it was ridiculous to say she was addicted. There was no problem. There was no… problem.

Irala sighed and rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. She gave Cassandra a nod.

“Sorry for worrying you. I’m all right now. Truly.”

“Very well,” Cassandra offered her a hand, which Irala accepted, tugged up to her feet. “Come, we are to cross the border into Orlais today. You should be seen in the vanguard.”

Irala groaned. “We aren’t friends anymore.”

“Good. Then I do not have to feel bad for forcing you.” 

Headache forgotten, Irala laughed as she ducked under the tent flap and outside.

 

* * *

 

Irala’s so-called inner circle were in large part conspicuously absent for the Inquistion’s arrival into Orlais. The traitorous bastards. Just when she most needed company – a little solidarity in suffering, they upped and abandoned her. Now she’d been thrown to the wolves. The Orlesian wolves wearing masks and wielding altogether too many different varieties of salad fork. Irala would have thought that the checkpoint on the border of one of the biggest highways into Orlais would be more… fortified. Certainly there were soldiers around, but she supposed that sending word of the Inquisition’s arrival was prone to causing excitement. This was, after all, the first time they’d set out on an operation since defeating Corypheus. The Orlesians were probably gloating to everyone who’d listen that theirs was the country seeing the most immediate attention.

Regardless, most of Irala’s friends had managed to find reason to evade the simpering and swooning. Cassandra’s presence was a sliver of comfort, if only because Irala knew that the seeker hated it just as much as she did. That of course was mitigated by the fact it was Cassandra who was strongarming her into taking the lead in the first place. Cole had decided to accompany them both, but to say Cole was good at avoiding attention was to assert that mice were small.

An eager cadre of Inquisition officers accompanied the trio, most likely because they had insufficient experience of Orlesians. After the debacle at Halamshiral, Irala had more than had her fill of the masked empire.

Noell was a notable exception to the enthusiasm. She was, Irala could tell, trying to keep a neutral face, but failing at it quite miserably. Actually the captain was wearing more of a scowl. Momentarily, Irala considered that Noell was taking her duties very seriously, trying to show off the stern strength of the Inquisition. She was sympathetic towards that; Irala often felt like she was being put on display, and this was Noell’s first time at the head of such a procession. The pressure of so many curious eyes was probably starting to get to her.

That was Irala’s opinion up until she caught sight of Dane trotting alongside Noell, causing her to abruptly remember that the captain was Fereldan. Oh. Right. While Irala’s knowledge of history was reluctant at best, crowbarred into her head at protesting quillpoint by Josephine, she recalled enough to be aware that Orlais had invaded and occupied Ferelden in the past. She supposed she and Noell had that much in common.

Briefly, Irala entertained herself with the notion of Noell at the Winter Palace. It would have been a disaster. A glorious, wonderful disaster.

Behind Noell was Thom, flanked on either side by the chevalier and dwarf from the meeting. Both of them looked far more at ease in the saddle than the man between them, something which caught Irala a little by surprise, in the dwarf’s case. They didn’t have horses below ground, did they? The chevalier was smiling, the slightest upwards curl of the lips which was the most emotion Irala had seen from her to date.

Irala tried as hard as she could not to think about how this was a homecoming for the woman.

Nope. Too late.

She turned her attention forward again. They’d almost reached the small gated fort which represented the border crossing, which meant it was about time to dismount. Irala concealed a sigh behind her arm and slid from Bard’s back. The hart gave her a look and, perhaps sensing her anxiety, attempted to alleviate it in typical Bard fashion by aiming a headbutt square at her face. Irala ducked it and scowled at him. Typical of her luck to pick out the worst-tempered animal in the entire stables.

She was fond of him.

Moments after Irala’s feet touched the ground, she was assaulted by a man wearing an incredibly elaborate owl mask, patterned with sequins and interwoven golden threads. It was, she had to begrudgingly admit, quite beautiful. Also incredibly impractical, blocking off most all peripheral vision and looking rather heavy to boot, but this was Orlais. That meant it was time to check common sense at the border.

“Inquisitor!” he purred. “So wonderful to see you! After hearing of your exploits, I simply had to make your acquaintance,” he favoured her with a grin. “It is so wonderful to know that we can rely upon your forces for protection; it seems that a rabbit can carry the heart of a lion!”

Irala drew upon all her reserves of diplomacy and tact, and successfully restrained herself from punching the man square in the jaw. Josephine would have been very proud.

The next… Creators, it felt like months, but probably more like an hour, passed at an absolute snail’s pace. Irala could have sworn that the waiting crowd hadn’t been _that_ large, and yet it seemed that each time she turned around there was a fresh face – or mask – to greet and exchange pleasantries with. She was fully prepared to strangle someone by the end of the first ten minutes; did they really think she wasn’t able to read the backhanded insults in their words? Maybe they were doing it on purpose in an attempt to provoke her. There’d certainly been enough of that Halamshiral.

At one stage, Cole popped up to helpfully remark. “You want to fight, fierce, flying fists, but you can’t hit words. You could probably hit mouths, but I think that would be bad.”

“Yeah. Thanks Cole.”

Just when it became absolutely interminable, and Irala thought that she was going to scream at the endless procession – which she was becoming certain consisted of people changing their masks and then coming back to have another go – there was a ringing of bells. This, apparently, signified lunchtime, and chattering away, the crowd began to disperse, having seemingly had their fill of the Inquisition for the time being.

Thank merciful Mythal. If that had gone on any longer, Irala didn’t think she could be held accountable for her actions.

The others appeared to have survived the ordeal too, though Irala doubted any of the officers had received quite as much scrutiny as she had. In a brief sweep of the area behind her, she caught sight of Cassandra… who probably had gone through just as much of the wringer. Albeit probably a little less constrained by the need to be diplomatic. Cassandra had never felt shy about sharing her opinions on the politics. Or, to be blunt, telling people to get lost when they were wearing on her limited patience. Irala sort of hated that the seeker could get away with that, largely because she was insanely jealous. It was times like this that she struggled with her role as a leader. Irala wasn’t any good with speeches, she had no head whatsoever for diplomacy, and she wasn’t remotely Andrastian in an organisation formed by the three most Andrastian people possible. She was good in a fight and a passable tactician; that was all.

And yet here she was. Inquisitor, which meant feigning politeness and civility.

At least they had a momentary respite. Irala wasn’t looking forward to this lunch one bit. Perhaps she could make an excuse and say that she needed to eat with the soldiers? Ugh. No. The Orlesians would see that as a slight, because _breathe_ wrong around an Orlesian and it was cause for offence. She’d just have to make the most of the break and see in as much of the Inquisition convoy as she could. She’d be sure to have her choicest glares for Iron Bull when the Chargers finally showed up.

Irala returned to Bard, who tilted his head up in disdain. Soldiers and diplomats alike had given him a wide berth, possibly because they didn’t want to disturb the Inquisitor’s mount. Possibly because his glare was far scarier than that belonging to a hart had any right to be.

“Yes, yes, _ir abelas_ for leaving you on your own, great king Bard.”

He continued giving her the cold shoulder. Irala rolled her eyes. “Oh fine. I’ll sneak you some cheese from the dinner table. You lump…”

The stomping of boots heralded the arrival of Noell, returning to her horse. Dane trotted vigilantly at her side, as always. She had the heel of a hand pressed to each temple, and was muttering darkly under her breath. Irala caught snatches of it; something along the lines of ‘snotty little piss stains’. Noell raised her eyes from the ground only to attend to her horse, and a look of surprise crossed her face to see Irala standing there. She quickly snapped to attention, though the grimace didn’t entirely leave her.

“Sorry, Inquisitor. Didn’t realise you were here.”

“It’s fine. By the sounds of things, you didn’t enjoy that any more than me.”

A sheepish grin crossed Noell’s face. “Spose I should have been quieter,” abruptly, she sobered, shuffling her feet and looking like a _da’len_ caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “But, uh. Sorry. I know Lady Montilyet got all serious-like about us soldiers representing the Inquisition, and uh, I hope I didn’t, y’know, let the side down or…”

Irala interrupted. “Don’t worry about it,” she tried a smile. “You didn’t punch anyone, so as long as you kept the rest of it to yourself, you’re doing pretty well. Remind me to tell you about the first time I met Orlesian nobles. Actually no, never mind, please don’t,” that story had probably made its way around most of the Free Marches by now, and Irala needed her troops to actually hold some semblance of respect for her.

Noell let out a short laugh. “I think I heard that one from a couple of the guys who were at the Winter Palace. Did you really throw an envoy into a fountain?”

_Fenedhis._

“That is something I can’t confirm or deny, captain.”

Noell’s usual broad smile returned, her earlier reticence seemingly forgotten. “I’ll get it out of you sooner or later, ma’am.”

“We’ll see, captain,” Irala couldn’t help it, her lips twitched upward.

Dane barked enthusiastically, and Noell was instantly distracted by him, scratching behind the dog’s ears with both hands. He wiggled his stumpy tail, eyes closing shut in what had to be bliss. Irala could almost see why Fereldans were so fond of them. Almost.

Noell straightened. “Spose I should round up our people before anyone’s feathers get ruffled,” she hesitated, running a hand through her shaggy hair. “Hate to ask, but two sets of eyes are better than one. If you see Anamarie or Tagorn, can you let them know I need a word?”

“If I had any idea who either of them was, I’d say it was no problem,” Irala raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, right. Sorry, wasn’t thinking about that. Andraste’s arse, I’m so dozy-“ Noell’s eyes widened at a sudden realisation, and she started spluttering. “I mean- oh flames, uh, that is, uh… I never meant to blaspheme. Sorry. Ma’am. Sorry.”

Irala pinched the bridge of her nose, biting back the first response which sprang to mind; that she didn’t give the faintest damn about taking Andraste’s name in vain. With others around, however, Irala knew she couldn’t risk being overheard. They’d had one hell of a time winning over the chantry and its supporters, and that pot was best left unstirred. In public, anyway. After all, she wouldn’t be a soulless heathen elf if she kept her head down and her mouth shut.

“Calm down, Noell. I’m not delicate, I’ve heard worse,” and more directly offensive, at that.

Noell paused in mid apology and took a breath. “All right.”

A silence ensued. Irala cleared her throat. “So, Anamarie and Tagorn?” she prompted at length.

“Oh! Right,” Noell shook her head, smiling awkwardly down at her boots. “Maker, look at me getting all muddled…” she drew herself up, exhaled. “They’ve both been attending the officers meetings. Tagorn’s a dwarf, Anamarie is Orlesian-“

“Hold on…” this was jogging Irala’s memory. “Are they the two that were riding with Thom earlier today?”

Noell nodded. Irala returned the gesture. She was glad to have names for the faces, albeit not sure how much she felt like keeping an eye out for another Orlesian when she was already inundated with them.

“Thanks for this, Inquisitor,” Noell added, returning to her horse. “They’re good, but they’re… easily distracted. Both of them. I gotta make sure that they both stay focused once we hit the Plains.”

“Try knocking their heads together.”

Noell snorted with laughter. “That actually works? Cause sometimes that’s what I _feel_ like doing.”

Irala shrugged. “Most of the time no, but it does make me feel better.”

Another chuckle. Irala liked hearing the captain laugh, she decided. The way she expressed her amusement so whole-heartedly reminded Irala of Bull. She’d have to get the two of them together in a more casual setting, sometime; she had a feeling that they’d both get along like a house on fire.

“Okay, I should let you go. Thanks again, ma’am,” Noell saluted with just enough decorum to avoid looking disrespectful, though her grin remained intact.

Irala returned both the salute and the smile.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, barely twenty minutes passed before Irala was dragged back into the diplomatic mire. Irala had located Dorian, and was in the midst of holding a conversation stroke exchanging various barbs with him. Such was the rock upon which their friendship had been founded. Insults and sarcasm.

“So, have the Orlesians wrapped around your little finger yet?” Dorian leaned back against the foremost wagon in the Inquisition’s convoy. Its horses had been unhitched and were in the process of being watered, so it wasn’t going anywhere fast.

“Dorian, you know exactly what finger I want to give them.”

“Oh, _charming_. With manners like that, I struggle to see why you don’t make more friends.”

“Maybe I don’t want more friends. They all make fun of me.”

Dorian grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “Well, someone has to prevent your ego from spiralling out of control. Can’t let all this ‘saviour of Thedas’ business go to your head, can we?”

“You would be pretty qualified on that subject, Dorian.”

He laughed. “I could have sworn you weren’t nearly so biting when we first met, Irala. You’ve been spending too much time around Varric.”

“ _Lethallin_ , I was like this long before we met. It just means I like you,” she winked at him.

“Ah, lovely. I’m delighted to have the privilege of you insulting me, then.”

Teasing aside, Irala’s words were pretty much true. She wasn’t even capable of talking to people so playfully if she disliked them – it was a force of effort to be tersely polite, let alone start joking around. Her less bristly side was exclusive to her friends. That, Irala figured, was why Varric had taken to calling her Thorns. Insomuch as the dwarf’s nicknames had any logic at all, anyway.

“You’re welcome.”

Dorian shook his head. “I can only imagine how fun you are at parties- oh wait, never mind, I don’t need to imagine. I saw you at a party. It was terrifying, as I recall.”

Creators! Was everyone in the Inquisition determined to remind her of that blasted ball? “Venatori spies had infiltrated it!”

“Yes, and very nearly half of the people you threw out of windows were Corypheus’s men. You should visit Tevinter sometime; they’d simply adore your approach to socialising.”

Irala frowned at him, held back on biting his head off. She couldn’t hold him accountable for his entire country, but it wasn’t a pleasant topic. There were slaves in Tevinter, many of them elven; she’d never entirely been able to reconcile how Dorian could just… accept that. “Yeah, an elven non-mage. That would go down wonderfully.”

Dorian stroked his chin. “I suppose you have a point. Personally, I still think it would be worth it just to see the look on the Magisterium’s faces.”

“If I ever run short of ways of annoying magisters, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Irala answered dryly.

“Aha! Progress!”

“Inquisitor?”

Irala turned to face the fresh voice. A man and a woman were walking up to her, side by side with one another. It took but a moment to recognise the woman – the chevalier Irala now knew was named Anamarie. The man, wearing Orlesian military garb and without a mask, was unknown to her.

“Lieutenant?"

Anamarie’s arm crossed her chest in a swift salute. “Sorry for interrupting, my Lady,” her accent was even thicker than Irala’s own dalish brogue. “I wished to introduce my brother, Ser Guillaume de Veux.”

Guillaume bowed his head deeply. He shared his sister’s dark hair and somewhat gaunt features; the resemblance was obvious now that it had been pointed out. ”Inquisitor. It is a pleasure to meet you,” his voice was gravelly.

“And the same to you,” Irala glanced to Anamarie, who had fixed her attention at some point beyond Irala’s left shoulder, and then indicated Dorian, knowing he’d hate to be left out. “This is Lord Dorian Pavus, a close friend of mine.”

Polite nods were exchanged all around. An awkward pause later, and then Anamarie spoke again.

“Guillaume has a missive for you, my Lady.”

Guillaume stepped forward, producing a letter from a pocket in his uniform. Dorian, catching sight of it, gave an appreciative whistle. “My my, Empress Celene’s seal. We _are_ making friends in high places.”

Irala took the letter, and as she broke open the seal, Guillaume explained. “Empress Celene sends her regards, and wishes to lend you support during your operations on the Plains,” he bowed his head once more. “My men and I are that support, my Lady. Our numbers are few, but we are fierce fighters and well trained,” he saluted, meeting Irala’s gaze calmly. “It would be an honour to accompany you, Inquisitor.”

Great. More chevaliers. That was just what they needed stomping around, getting in everyone's way. Irala took care to keep her face as neutral as she possibly could. The gesture was largely symbolic; a handful of soldiers couldn’t possibly make that much of a difference. However, Irala’s response would be carefully dissected and analysed. Refuse the assistance, and it would be as good as a slap to the face of the Empress.

She briefly entertained the notion of cuffing Celene upside the head and knocking some sense into her. She’d been sorely tempted to do just that during the masquerade ball. One part for helping cause the mess, one part for dragging Irala’s sorry hide into it.

As always, there were –sigh- appearances to be maintained.

“We’d be happy to have you along, Ser Guillaume,” Irala told him. His expression didn’t change even slightly. Another trait that ran in the family, apparently.

“Wonderful,” said Anamarie. “I can help Guillaume settle into our marching order, my Lady,” she hesitated, glanced at her brother, and then back to Irala. “If it would not be too bold, I have a request, Inquisitor,” she ventured.

Irala raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead,” – please not more meeting and greeting, please not more meeting and greeting- 

“Our father would be overjoyed to take lunch with the Inquisitor. I do not mean to impose, my Lady, but he has been determined to meet you since I first joined up.”

Dammit.

Irala suppressed a sigh. Well, there went any chance of sneaking off to eat with the men. “Sure,” she said, because say anything else and she didn’t trust herself not to scream.

“And you, Lord Pavus?” Guillaume inquired politely. “Would you like to join us?”

Irala turned a pleading gaze to her friend. Dorian smiled ruefully. “I have other arrangements, I’m afraid. Do pass my regards to your father.”

Traitor twice over!

“Certainly,” Guillaume looked to Irala. “Well, I believe they are setting up tables for the meal. I shall show you to our father’s.”

With the gait of one walking to the gallows, Irala followed in the wake of the two Orlesians. ‘I hate you’, she mouthed over her shoulder.

Dorian blew her a kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

Looking upon Dirthaveren sent a prickling sensation down Irala’s spine and instilled a deep feeling of longing within her chest. Even more than the Emerald Graves, this place represented all that had been taken from the People. This was where her kin had fought and died, striving against an invader armed with hate and armoured with the false flag of faith. She’d tried to put that out of her mind on the journey, and yet seeing it, seeing broken pieces of history interspersed with shem _monuments_ to what they’d done… Irala couldn’t quell the raw ache in her heart.

Irala was uncertain whether she preferred that sorrow to the mixture of pain and anger she felt whenever she saw the flash of red cloth, heard a telltale giggle, or the buzzing of a bee. She was halfway convinced that Sera was doing it on purpose just to rattle her nerves; surely it shouldn’t be possible to cross paths with one person this many times on a single march.

Still, whether it was by deliberate malice or just poor timing, for now, her ex-girlfriend wasn’t the worst thing on her mind. Irala sat atop Bard at the crest of a hill, silently watching the Inquisition’s wagons and people disperse into a base camp. The troops were buzzing with excitement and more than a little nervousness, delighted to finally be off the road, but anxious about what was to come. Prepared as always, Scout Harding had marked out a good spot for them to all begin setting up, though her people had already moved on by the time the main force arrived. From the reports they’d received, the plains were a bloody mess, locked in a conflict that should have ended months ago. With Inquisition agents in the area to gather information, the picture had become a little clearer. Neither orders nor relief from the Empire were getting through, keeping either side from pulling out. Demons, on the other hand? The Dirth had those in abundance. Even beyond death, Corypheus’s influence persisted in creating trouble.

Coupled with the undead infestation and entrenched Venatori elements stubbornly refusing to surrender… Little wonder a place that had been soaked in so much violence now proved to be a perfect home for rifts and blood mages. This place was a battleground long before the Orlesians drew the lines of their civil war across it. She could only hope that she would be able to stay focused. Half of the Orlesian army was mired here, if they weren’t careful, the Inquisition could easily be drawn into the same predicament. Sure, Irala wanted to think that they were better organised than that, but she imagined that the Orlesians had thought the same thing, too.

“You stay up here much longer, boss, and they’re gonna think you forgot where your tent is.”

Iron Bull rode up behind her, his mount labouring up the slope. No matter that Bull’s horse was one of the biggest she’d ever seen. Qunari were pretty damn big too.

She shook her head slightly, but remained silent. She’d never properly be able to put into words how she felt. Solas was the person who’d come close to understanding her sombreness back when the Inquisition had been afield in the Emerald Graves, and even then, she and him hadn’t seen perfectly eye to eye. The other elf that Irala frequently spent time with? Even the idea of bringing those emotions up to Sera had been ridiculous, and it was worse now.

Bull gave her a long look. “You gonna be okay, boss?” he said eventually.

Irala barely turned her head, still gazing out across the plains. She wasn’t certain there was an okay to be had. She’d just need to spend a little time working through it; fighting demons would probably help. Adrenaline always helped her blast through stress. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Hrm,” Bull squinted. “No offence, boss, but you have a pretty crap poker face. You’re some way off fine.”

“What’s your point, Bull?” she snapped. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not even with a well-meaning friend. How was it that she could never have time to herself?

He held up a hand in a placatory motion. “Not trying to be pushy. Just know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. Wanted to let you know that I’m here if you wanna get anything off your chest.”

Irala let out a sigh which swiftly dissolved into a growl. Enough. Just… enough. Yeah, Bull had helped her out back at Skyhold, when the wounds were still fresh and raw. That was then. She’d lost it in a major way during that sparring session, marooning herself somewhere between grief and fury. She didn’t want to reopen those scars across her heart.

Or maybe, more accurately, she didn’t want to let him see how much they still bled.

“All right. You let me know. Now can you just give me a minute?”

The qunari started to say something else, then clearly thought better of it. He shook his head, made a grumbling noise, and then wheeled his horse about. “If that’s how you wanna play it. Offer’s open, boss.”

She ignored him. There wasn’t any discussion left to be had.

 

 

Some time later, the Inquisition had assembled. All the wagons had arrived, present and correct. The last of the men had entered camp, set up their tents. While the afternoon sun was still high in the sky, the work would doubtless continue late into the evening. If this was to be the Inquisition’s base of operations, they needed to guarantee that they were doing it correctly.

That, however, wasn’t for Irala to worry about. Those kinds of logistics weren’t her job, and she’d doubtless just get in the way if she tried to interfere. Instead, she had gathered her immediate companions, along with the senior officers, preparing for a briefing. Ser Guillaume stood off to the side, flanked by two of his chevaliers, discussing something in low tones with Anamarie. Various voices rose and fell amongst the group. Dorian scowling at some joke of Varric’s, Bull sharing an enthusiastic anecdote with red-headed Thom. Blackwall laughed, and Irala’s heart was seared when she caught sight of Sera alongside of him. Damn it all. She tore her attention from those two, found Elva, who was watching the rest silently. No more sociable for her chat with Cole and Irala, then.

Irala had spent a while conferring with Noell beforehand, ensuring they were both on the same page. Irala needn’t have worried; the captain was taking her responsibilities extremely seriously, and had seemingly both read and memorised all of the reports they’d received. Irala was actually a little jealous of how quickly Noell had managed to come up with a plan. Given time, Irala could have done the same, but for all of her goofing off, Noell was pretty damn sharp.

“All right, listen up everyone,” Irala turned to the group, and immediately the murmur of conversation ceased. All eyes were on her.

“As per Captain Noell’s strategy, we need to keep up the pressure on the eastern ramparts. We’re gaining ground, but something’s still raising the dead in the trenches.”

“Yeah,” Noell’s voice was serious, focused, even. She stood with arms folded, the sternest Irala had seen her. “We’ve got a foothold, but they’ve dug in pretty damn hard for walking corpses. If you need us to force the issue, the manpower’s there, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be clean.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Irala answered. “Cassandra, I’d like you to work with the Captain to break their lines. Take Dorian, Sera, and the Chargers with you. Bull, that means I want you to advise Noell on the best way to use you all.”

Bull nodded. “Gotcha, boss,” he favoured Noell with a grin. “I’ll make sure the boys are ready to bust some heads.”

“Oh goodie. The undead make for such delightful company.”

Irala paid little mind to Dorian’s complaint, finding herself looking beyond him, back to where Sera was loitering. While it was difficult to tell through the crowd, Irala thought she saw a scowl. Frustrated at her partners? Frustrated at her assignment? Just being herself?

She tore her eyes away for a second time. Not a good idea to get distracted. “Varric, I need you to support the base camp. Make sure we’re watertight. Make sure every angle has been looked at. I don’t want us to be caught off guard when we have so many resources invested.”

“I get to stay in camp, warm and dry, without anyone trying to kill me? What’d I do to get on your bad side, Thorns?”

Irala rolled her eyes at him. “Blackwall, Cole, you’re both with me. We’re going to meet up with Scout Harding to investigate the western ramparts. From the sounds of things, they’re just as bad as in the east, but Harding thinks there might be a rift somewhere in there. Obviously that means I’m needed on site.”

Cole nodded absently, staring off into the distance.

“The rest of you…” Irala glanced at the collection of officers. “Well, I don’t need to tell you to listen to your captain,” she turned to Noell. “Keep the area around your operation secure, Noell, and good luck.”

Noell saluted. “I’m always careful, your worship,” there was a gleam in her eye that made Irala hesitant to accept that declaration at face value, but there was no sense worrying about it now.

“All right, any questions?”

A low murmuring was indication to the negative, up until somebody cleared their throat. Guillaume. The chevalier looked out of place standing amongst the officers in his Orlesian-designed armour, completely mismatched to all the Inquisition uniforms.   

“Ser Guillaume?”

“What would you have my men and I do, Inquisitor?”

Oh. Right. He didn’t fall under Noell’s direct command, and putting chevaliers with the Chargers seemed like a recipe for disaster…

Ugh. Dread wolf take it. She was going to have to bring Guillaume along. “You can come with me. A few more blades would be welcome.”

They wouldn’t, but she couldn’t _say_ that, as much as she wanted to.

There was the faintest suggestion of something, if viewed through a magnifying glass, could possibly have been construed as a smile. “I look forward to it, Inquisitor.”

“In that case, do I have leave to accompany my brother, your worship?” naturally, Anamarie took that opportunity to interject.

So. Many. Orlesians.

Irala just nodded. She’d already agreed to let Anamarie act as guide to Guillaume, as much as it felt excessive to dedicate an officer to shepherding the chevaliers around. On the other, more selfish hand, it did mean that they were out of Irala’s hair. At least a little, anyway.

“We have our orders,” announced Noell. “Let’s move out,” she flashed a smile at Irala, lowering her voice. ”You can count on me.”

Irala adjusted a gauntlet, took a deep breath, and then let it out. As usual before combat, her stomach was beginning to fizz, a shiver going down her spine. She’d be twitchy until she started fighting. And right now? She had one hell of a lot of stress to get out of her system.

“Okay, Dirthaveren,” she murmured. “Give me your best shot.”

 

* * *

 

Its best shot, as it happened, was pretty damn good.

Irala wiped blood from her eyes, streaming from a cut across her forehead. Beside her, Blackwall stood with his hands on his knees, sucking wind. Guillaume, no worse for the wear, helped one of his chevaliers up onto his feet, steadying the man with a hand, then giving a nod. His sister checked on an injured scout, beckoning over one of their fellows for medical attention.

“Whew…” the voice came from behind Irala, low down. She turned, and there was Scout Harding, nursing a gash across her arm. “That was a little close for comfort.”

She could say that again.

Investigating the trenches had quite rapidly got out of hand. It was just as well that Harding had asked for back up, because the moment Irala had set foot into the fortification, she’d been absolutely swarmed by undead. That had pretty much blown the ‘stealthily and carefully’ part of the plan out of the water – in retrospect she probably shouldn’t have tried to sneak around whilst wearing plate mail. Still, they’d more or less succeeded in the scouting element of the task at that stage, and Irala was willing to pull back and reconsider their approach. She got as far as signalling to disengage …

Which, apparently, was not an order that Guillaume was familiar with, as he proceeded to launch his men into a full assault. Seeing _that_ , Harding had committed the rest of the men and the mission somehow changed from a reconnaissance into an all-out offensive. In the process of which they discovered that not only _was_ there a rift in the middle of the ramparts, but also a cell of Venatori who’d managed to trap themselves within the fortification. The fighting that had followed was gritty, unpleasant, and close quarters. Irala had taken several hits in the thick of combat, constantly missing having long range support to keep her opponents off her back. It was, to be succinct, an absolute clusterfuck.

Irala hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in weeks.

Now that the dust was settling, however, she sought out Guillaume again, narrowing her eyes at him. The chevaliers had proven to be very useful in driving a wedge into the undead ranks, invaluable shock troopers when lined up alongside the more lightly armoured Inquisition scouts. However, it wouldn’t have turned into a pitched battle in the first place if it wasn’t for the Orlesian disregarding her instructions. Casualties were light, but they could easily have been far worse – Irala didn’t even want to think about what would have happened if one of the scouts hadn’t been a mage.

“Ser Guillaume.”

“Inquisitor,” his formerly-shining armour was splattered with dark gore. “A fine victory, is it not?”

Irala kept her face as neutral as she could manage, which wasn’t very. Not with the adrenaline rush of combat still coursing through her system. “You ignored my orders, Guillaume. Care to explain?”

He tilted back his head, and for a few seconds, seemed genuinely confused. “I merely saw an opportunity, your Worship. We had the chance to turn the tide in our favour, and now we have seized back the fortification.”

Irala took a step forward, then another. Guillaume was taller than her, but that didn’t stop her from glaring right into his face. “Is that how the Orlesian army does it, Guillaume?”

“I fail to see the relevance. This is not the Orlesian army-“

“Damn right it isn’t!” Irala spat. Guillaume took a step back. “You are here because your Empress ordered it, Guillaume! That means you follow my commands! You do NOT get to gamble with the lives of my men and then act like the risk was justified just because it worked! What if Harding hadn’t backed you up? What if there had been an ambush waiting?” Irala advanced again, snarling. “There are a hundred ways that could have gone wrong, and it is pure LUCK that it didn’t. You are NOT to ignore orders again, or Falon’Din help me, I will send you back to Celene in a prison wagon! Am I understood!?”

Several emotions passed across Guillaume’s face. Shock, outrage, reticence. At length he simply swallowed and bowed his head. His jaw was tight with suppressed rage. “As you say, Inquisitor. I apologise,” he saluted, a little too curtly to be truly polite, and then turned on his heel and stalked off back into the trenches.

Irala watched him go, seething.

It was the type of reckless, daring move that she would have considered back before she became Inquisitor. She didn’t blame him for thinking of it. What she blamed him for was going over her head. Irala had a responsibility to keep her people safe. She was perfectly fine with disregarding her own safety, but the Inquisiton’s soldiers weren’t a resource to be expended. They trusted her to do the right thing, that’s why she’d been put in charge. Treat men like… like numbers on a page, and that was dangerously close to the type of disregard people like Corypheus showed for their underlings.

Irala didn’t want that to be her. She never wanted it to be her.

For a little while, the remainder of the group gave her some space, regrouping and tending to the wounded. Fortunately most of the scouts had been given at least a crash course in first aid – usually amounting to ‘slap some ground elfroot on it and it’ll be fine’, and there were a couple with more involved knowledge. Irala too had experience of that kind of thing; most dalish could perform basic bandaging and wound care, and after a few minutes of taking deep, calming breaths, she moved to add her own assistance.

Her first patient was a man suffering from a deep gouge across his brigandine, blood gleaming in the rent in the material. Although the armour had absorbed most of the blow, whatever claw had dealt it was sharp enough to tear through. He’d barely stirred since the fight ending, overwhelmed with exhaustion and injury.

He didn’t, to be frank, look anything like Irala’s expectations of a mage. They were supposed to wear robes and look all mystical – or at least carry a staff. This man was dressed like the rest of the scouts, and his sheaths were occupied by a pair of long daggers. For all that, he’d been slinging spells with the best of them during the melee, deftly weaving elemental magic in with strong barriers. He favoured her with a smile as she approached, friendly, if weary.

“Your worship,” his accent reminded her of Josephine, and his skintone wasn’t far off hers; a little darker than Irala. “The stories of your ferocity do you no justice.”

Irala knelt alongside him. “Don’t flatter me. Your magic really pulled us out of the fire there.”

He grinned, deep hazel eyes lighting up joyfully, dropping years from his features. His hair was dark, immaculately styled, and he had a moustache that could compete with Dorian’s. “That’s strange. I recall adding extra fire.”

Irala smiled, gesturing for him to remove his armour so she could take a look at his wound. “We haven’t met before. I’d remember a mage scout.”

He shrugged his way out of the battered armour, wincing in pain. His fingers traced around the blood-soaked cloth underneath, probing at the injury, and then he dipped his head. “Domenico Mavaldo. But please, just call me Domenico. The remaining parts are terribly ostentatious, and I imagine I’ve been disowned three times over by now already.”

Irala, already beginning to lean close to examine the gouge, raised an eyebrow. “You’re surprisingly… open with that information.”

He chuckled, a lighthearted and boyish sound. “Why not? If my family casts me out for having the audacity to be a mage, it’s the least I can do to embarrass them in turn.”

Domenico leaned backwards, stabilising himself with a hand on the ground either side, inviting Irala to start. A quick inspection was enough to determine that he wasn’t too badly hurt. There was a lot of blood, but it was the kind of wound that looked a lot worse than it was. Already, the edges were beginning to clot; she just needed to make sure that it was clean and perhaps put in a few stitches.

“You might want to bite down on something,” Irala warned him as she produced a flask from her pack. It contained a simple herbal mixture which helped to prevent infection, a recipe taught to her by _Hahren_ Gaila. From experience, Irala knew that it stung like the absolute blazes. Pouring a little out onto a square of cloth, Irala began to dab at the wound.

“Oh please, Inquisitor, I’ll be fi- ah- ah! Ah! Ow!” Domenico fussed and complained, fidgeting away from Irala’s hand.

“Come on, you’re acting the _da’len_ ,” she told him, keeping frustration from her voice. Taking out her anger on somebody who had nothing to do with it wasn’t fair. “Stop squirming around, or I’ll just rub some dirt on it.”

He continued to grumble, but sat still as she proceeded with her work. Intermittently, Irala stopped to replenish the tincture, moving to a fresh, unbloodied section of cloth. It took a while, and by the time she was finished, she’d gone through half of the fluid in the flask. Well, that’s what it was there for. There would be plenty of opportunity to replenish her supplies from plants in the Dirth.

Domenico let out a breath, flashing a rueful smile. “Remind me not to get hurt around you again, your worship. The treatment is as painful as the wounding.”

Irala snorted a laugh and returned to her pack, rooting through it until she located a small leather pouch. Within were several needles and a good deal of thread. It always paid to come prepared. Some of those needles had been with her for years.

“Well you aren’t out of the woods yet,” she warned him. “I’m no surgeon.”

“At least you have the courtesy to warn me. Alas, for my nice comfortable tower.”

“I’d be more willing to believe that you’re homesick if you weren’t working with the scouts,” Irala eyed Domenico. With his lean and athletic build, he didn’t look like he belonged anywhere near to a Circle, expect possibly as a templar. Where could someone who had lived in confinement for years at a time have picked up the skills to fit in with Harding’s people?

Domenico laughed. “You have me worked out already, I see.”

Grinning, Irala threaded the needle with ease and then shuffled back over to Domenico, motioning for him to lay back.  She’d try to be gentle, but it was difficult to be delicate about this kind of thing, as she raised the needle again and- and she did a double take. It wasn’t threaded. Irala blinked, found the end of the strand a second time, and pushed it into the eye of the needle.

She missed.

A frown creased her brow, triggering a warm trickle from her own wound. Her hands weren’t doing what she wanted them to, and she became aware that they had begun to tremble. Combat shakes? This didn’t usually happen, not unless she’d been blasted with some serious magic. A fight like this one was small fry by comparison.

Irala scowled harder and focused on stilling her errant extremities. With a conscious force of effort, she managed to quell the jittering. She looked back to Domenico. “Sorry. Just having a little trouble with the needle.”

Attention on threading again now- and the moment she’d taken her mind off stopping the trembles, they’d started back up. More severely than before, even. She gritted her teeth and clenched both hands into fists. For a second, that fierce concentration was enough… and then the bunched fists shook, too.

Elgar’nan, her own body rebelling against her was just what she needed.

“I’ll… I’ll send someone else over, Domenico,” she rose and didn’t wait for a reply, stepping away from him, tucking each hand underneath the opposite armpit.

Irala hadn’t been feeling anxious in the slightest. Frustrated? Yes, but otherwise, content enough. There were worse things that Guillaume could have done, and the situation could have turned out terribly badly. There was no reason to have her nerves so rattled, and yet now that she’d noticed, her head pounded, her heart hammered within her chest. Her mouth felt dry, and her body sweating cold. Something like fear, and yet that was ridiculous. What was here to be afraid of?

Before she knew it, her feet had taken her away from the battleground, away from the scouts and soldiers. The area was clear of the dead, a flagpole up ahead indicating that this was perhaps the command post for the ramparts. Her vision blurred, and she collapsed onto her knees with a crash of metal. Irala took a great heaving breath, and her entire frame shook, as if the trembling in her hands had spread throughout her body. A dim part of her wanted to stand, but the rest, the rest was content to stay on the ground. She just… she just needed a minute.

It was closer to twenty before she finally managed to rise again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw: Violence and blood.

Afternoon bled into evening as the Inquisition worked towards making the trenches into something resembling habitable. Easier said than done; while the dead may no longer have been walking, they were doing an admirable job of choking the twists and turns of the Orlesian fortification. Between injuries and that the bulk of the group were scouts, they just didn’t have the numbers to clear the place out. The main force was all at the eastern ramparts, and they would have more than enough to contend with without asking for assistance in dragging corpses about.

A few hours of work was enough to clean up some of the mess that lay within what was once the area’s barracks. The furniture was splintered, there were bloodstains everywhere and the entire place reeked of smoke and sweat, but it was warm, it was dry, and it lacked tenants of the shambling variety. If Irala was to be frank, she’d slept in worse places.

Not that she got much of _that_ done.

The shaking spell preyed on her mind, and as a rule, the more pressure Irala was under, the less inclined she was to sit still. Trying to rest while abuzz with anxiety would be an exercise in futility, and she knew herself too well to even make the attempt. Thankfully, once she managed to get a hold of herself, there was no relapse. Her hands were her own, and the shaking stopped. Small mercies, but little comfort when she didn’t know what had caused it in the first place. She might have considered poison, but dead men were hardly renowned for their subtlety, and she was quite certain that none of the Venatori had laid a hand on her. Considering her abilities, she could rule out magic, too.

Which left… what? Fatigue? She’d been tired from a hundred other skirmishes and never had her own body refuse to obey her.

Ugh. Going in circles. Irala threw herself into the task, seeking a distraction. That was the problem for her lately; too much _thinking_. It had made her struggle in Skyhold. It had made the march more of an issue than it needed to be, and it had even crept into her decision-making here in the Dirth. Typical of her to attempt to find an emotional outlet and then just fill it up with even more problems. Too easy to second guess herself and tumble into insecurities when all she really needed to focus on was the task at hand.

Even if that was, well, dumping desiccated corpses onto a pyre. 

Irala had grown used to the custom of burning the dead over her time in the shem lands. It was understandable to show one’s respect by ensuring that their mortal remains were truly laid to rest. Yet simultaneously, it seemed… if Irala was to be blunt, it epitomised the human approach to life. The dead may one day walk, so burn them to ashes, an obstacle exists, so smash through it, a person may become dangerous, so cage them.

While she did her best not to dwell on what could happen, Irala would be lying if she claimed she hadn’t thought about the possibility of her own death. Considering the situations she found herself in on an almost daily basis, it would take suicidal levels of overconfidence for the risks never to cross her mind. If the worst were to come to pass, she hoped at least that they’d remember the ways of her people when commemorating her, and bury her remains. Unless she was eaten by a dragon or something… though perhaps in that case they could kill the dragon and then bury _that_. It would make for a pretty amazing memorial.

“Forgetting is still easier than remembering, but I’d make sure they didn’t,” the voice came from above, and Irala was entirely unsurprised to glance up to the lip of the trench and see Cole sitting on the edge of it, gazing off into space. It took him a moment, but after a short pause, his eyes drifted down to meet hers. “I don’t think you’d make a very good tree. You’re better as a person.”

Irala laughed. She still wasn’t entirely convinced Cole hadn’t developed a sense of humour over the past months. “I appreciate the sentiment, _lethallin_ ,” something else she’d become accustomed to; Cole’s habit of discussing whatever was on anyone’s mind, regardless of whether they actually voiced the thought.

“ _Am_ I your friend, Irala?” his attention had wandered off again. Irala frowned up at him, leaning against the trench wall. A little crease of pain went through the bandaged cut on her head.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Cole.”

“I’m glad,” he rocked forward, fidgeting with his hands. “Varric says that sometimes friends have to hurt a little to help a lot. Pat on the shoulder, ‘it’s tough love, kid’,” he shook his head. “But hurt is hurt, even if it’s only little.”

She blinked. “Cole, I’m going to be honest. You’ve completely lost me.”

“You’re still hurting.”

“It’s just a scratch, Cole,” she said it flat, hard. She knew that it wasn’t the physical injury that he was referring to. He knew that she knew. It didn’t matter; this wasn’t a conversation she felt like having.

Cole made a face at her that made him resemble a very sad puppy. “I just want to help.”

“Cole, I …” a thousand and one emotions tore through her. What was there to say? She’d gone through a breakup. It had sucked. She wasn’t over it yet.  It probably, more than she cared to admit, had a bearing on how tightly wound the Dirth was making her. Irala clenched her jaw, straightened. “I know,” she said softly. “But I need to work through this at my own pace. How ever long it takes.”

“But-“

“Enough,” firm and resolved. Irala didn’t want Cole’s unique brand of therapy, no more than she’d wanted any help from Bull. Could they not understand that she’d rather not talk about this? Did she have a ‘try and comfort me about my ex-girlfriend’ sign attached to her back?

Cole intensified the sad eyes. Varric must have been coaching him. In response she simply shook her head, and after a moment more of staring, he relented. He cocked his head to the side and then jerked it backwards, motioning. “Someone’s here. They’re happy, hurried; we showed them what we can do!” he frowned in concentration. “The message wants to be heard. You should go hear, too.”

Grateful for the change of topic and the opportunity to escape Cole’s scrutiny, Irala took a running jump and latched onto the trench wall. She scrabbled for purchase, and then her boots dug into a horizontal plank, allowing her to boost herself the rest of the way up and over. Good thing she was out of her plate mail and only in the underlying gambeson, or she would have quite thoroughly splatted into the wall. She didn’t know how the former templars within the Inquisition’s ranks managed to wear that armour all the time. It was bloody _heavy._

“All right, Cole, where’s this messenger?”

Cole pointed, but seemed content enough to remain seated. Irala gave him an affectionate rap on the hat, and continued onwards in the direction that he’d indicated. Doubtless the spirit boy had something on his mind. Several somethings, knowing Cole. He hadn’t often turned his attentions towards her, and Irala wasn’t sure – scratch that, she was certain that she didn’t like it. Cole had a lot of insight to offer, and Irala didn’t doubt he’d done more than his fair share of keeping Skyhold peaceful, but his methods weren’t for her. Thoughts and feelings were intensely private, something to be shared when one chose. She couldn’t fault him for doing what was in his nature.

He could just... point it away from her.

Out of the trenches, it was a short walk to find an upwards staircase leading onto the actual ramparts of the outpost. Little fighting had taken place up here; a touch ironic, considering the purpose of the walls. Undead didn’t have much of a head for the strategy of defending a fortified position. In any case, the elevated position was sufficient to give a good view of the main approaches to the ramparts. Scanning the peaks and troughs of the Dirth, it was the work of moments for Irala to pick out a figure in the near distance, riding hard. The trappings of Inquisition uniform were faintly visible, and considering the trajectory, this had to be Cole’s messenger.

Unhurriedly, Irala made her way towards the entrance by which they’d initially breached the defences. It too had been cleared of corpses, mostly because it was both inconvenient and unpleasant trying to step over dead bodies to get in and out of camp. She passed two sentries, who greeted her with respectful salutes before resuming a hawklike watch over the oncoming rider. Before long, the opening in the wall came into view, although it had now been secured by the simple measure of closing the postern gate. While they should be safe here, to not take such an easy precaution would have been utterly complacent.

Some time before reaching the gate itself, Irala caught sight of someone who’d beaten her to it. Anamarie, the chevalier turned Inquisition officer. No sign of her brother, which was just as well. Irala wasn’t sure that she could trust herself to be diplomatic around him. Since the thorough dressing down she’d given Guillaume, he’d kept entirely to himself and his own men. Whether he was sulking or just avoiding confrontation, Irala didn’t care.  He was an unwelcome headache, and the less time he spent around her, the better. Selfishly, Irala was regretting not shifting him off to someone else’s command. Chevaliers with the scouts, that couldn’t have been a worse idea…

Anamarie was leaning on the wall, gazing out at the surrounding countryside. She seemed completely enthralled, making no acknowledgment of Irala’s approach. The very suggestion of a smile was on her face, faint enough that Irala wasn’t certain it was truly there until she was within touching distance. Anamarie still didn’t break her intense focus on the horizon; she didn’t even appear to have noticed the incoming rider, or if she had, she’d ceased to pay attention to them. Irala waited a couple more seconds, and then cleared her throat.

Anamarie jumped, whirled to face her, and then jumped again. “Inquisiteur! Désolé! Je ne l’ai pas-“ she hesitated, and took a visible moment to compose herself. “I mean… sorry, your worship. I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s fine, lieutenant,” said Irala, making a game effort at suppressing a surge of irritation. Elgar’nan! Was she seriously feeling resentful because an Orlesian had slipped into her own tongue after spending days surrounded by countrymen? Irala was turning into a rage-choked mess.

After a moment, Anamarie relaxed fractionally. “Very well, Inquisitor.”

Irala, in spite of herself, was curious. “We have sentries posted, and you didn’t seem to be keeping watch. What were you doing?”

The relaxation immediately vanished, and Anamarie dropped her eyes. It was an unexpected reaction from someone Irala had perceived as stoic and strict. Was she embarrassed? “I was… taking in the view, Inquisitor,” her reply was quiet, and she didn’t look up.

Irala blinked. “Sightseeing, lieutenant?”

“I… yes ma’am,” Anamarie told her boots. “I had not been to the plains before now.”

Well… huh. Irala had assumed, from Anamarie’s confidence in the officers’ meetings, that the chevalier had experience in Dirthavaren. She’d shared detailed information about the region’s geography and locations of note, and had plenty to say about the various positions the two Orlesian armies had reportedly taken up. While Anamarie had make it clear she hadn’t been involved in either side of the civil war, it seemed a straightforward conclusion that her duties had taken her through the Dirth before.

 Only, apparently not. “I thought chevaliers passed through here all the time,” admittedly, that was an educated guess rather than something she knew for sure.

“We- they do,” Anamarie finally looked up again. “I, uh, I earned the shield only a short time before joining the Inquisition, your worship. My knowledge of the plains comes from my studies.”

Irala frowned, taking a moment to truly study the Orlesian. To quite some surprise, she realised that – in the absence of lines or scars on her face, or the slightest of grey in her hair, that Anamarie had to be rather younger than she’d first thought. She’d met Anamarie’s father back at the border crossing (a soiree that Irala had spent every moment praying to the creators to end), and although he had worn a mask, he’d definitely been an older man. She must have been a late arrival in the family. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a shock; Irala had never been good at judging that kind of thing when it came to shems. Or anyone who wasn’t an elf, really.

 She looked back out from the wooden palisade, trying to formulate a response. The rider beyond the walls was growing closer, though they were still some minutes away, if Irala was any judge. In spite of herself, Irala was growing curious. She’d been under the impression that becoming a chevalier was an honour; licence to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Especially to the underclasses, who just so happened to consist mostly of elves. It seemed strange to gain entry into a prestigious group and then give it up so soon afterwards.

“You left the chevaliers, then.”

Anamarie nodded slowly. “I had my reasons, your worship. I would prefer to leave it at that,” her head was a little bowed, and her voice quiet.

Irala shrugged. “Your business is your business,” she said, meaning it.

Anamarie inclined her head half an inch.

Silence descended over the two of them. Irala pulled her attention away from the other woman and trained her eyes back on the messenger. Individual details gradually became clear; deeply bronzed skin, considerable height, broad shoulders. Though they seemed almost too large for horseback, their lanky frame sat easily in the saddle, perfectly in sync with their mount. Irala was a little envious of the obvious riding skill; Bard was a formidable animal, but she wasn’t close to as comfortable with him yet. She supposed that was why the messenger held the role that they did; surprising that they’d never been commandeered for the scouts or spies, come to think of it. Talent like that didn’t often escape Leliana’s notice, and the spymaster’s replacement, Charter, was swiftly developing into a worthy successor in all regards.

“Inquisitor?”

Irala’s turn to be startled. Anamarie had given her the impression she was done talking, and she’d actually been enjoying the rare moment to her own thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, lieutenant?”

Anamarie leaned forward onto the wall. “I… apologise for my brother, your worship,” her voice was quiet, but firm. “Chevalier training rarely leaves room for self-doubt, and Guillaume is used to having a high level of autonomy. He saw a course of action and took it. I doubt he even thought twice. Insubordination was not his intention.”

Irala was glad the other woman wasn’t making eye contact; she didn’t think she could have hidden the ugly scowl that crossed her face. Was Irala just supposed to nod and say that she understood?  If anything, hearing that just strengthened her dislike for the chevaliers. How arrogant did a man have to be to assume that his ideas and decisions were automatically better than those around him? No amount of training or noble blood was sufficient to put a person beyond reproach, and yet those seemed to be tenets of the Orlesian knights.

Mythal’s mercy. Irala had known that Celene’s ‘support’ was going to turn into a headache.

“Noted,” was the response she eventually forced out. “If it happens again, there’s going to be a problem.”

Anamarie nodded sombrely. “I believe he’s aware of that,” a long pause. The lieutenant’s fingers gripped the planks of the wall tightly. “I am not trying to make excuses for him,” her head was a little bowed. “But I felt an explanation was owed… and I know how my brother thinks. We had the same training, and he has been a chevalier for over ten years.”

The explanation didn’t help in the slightest. Actually, Irala would have preferred not hearing it at all. She didn’t reply.

Another pause. “I apologise,” Anamarie said suddenly. “I spoke out of turn.”

Irala gave Anamarie a sidelong glance. Oh, right. Her silence probably made it seem as if she was angry. Which was, well, accurate. Albeit not especially befitting of a leader; creators forbid the Inquisitor have emotions.

“Open the gate! I’ve come with a message!”

Though, really, Irala had been exhibiting those far too often as of late.

Seizing the opportunity to escape the conversation, Irala nodded curtly to the lieutenant and made for the ladder secured to the inside of the rampart. By the time Irala started to climb down the rungs, Anamarie had already turned away, causing a sudden, unexpected pang of guilt. She wasn’t responsible for her brother’s actions. It wasn’t fair of Irala to take out the frustration on someone else.

Reaching the ground, Irala made her way to the postern gate, raised the bar, and pulled it open. The messenger was right on the other side, astride their horse. Irala had to look a long way up to meet their eyes. Okay, uh… they were tall. Really tall. At some stage on the ride, the hood of their cloak had blown back, revealing pointed ears.

Ghilan'nain's horns, what were they _feeding_ this one? They weren’t just big-for-an-elf, they were massive. A city elf too, at that, if their bare face was any indication.

“Oh! Your worship!”

Irala snapped herself out of gawking long enough to give a polite nod. The androgynous messenger swung themselves down from the saddle, an action which involved a great deal of leg. A flourishing bow ensued, and they straightened with a smile.

“You’re just who I was looking for, Inquisitor. I’ve brought a message from Captain Noell,” they produced a scrap of paper, glanced down at it. “The eastern ramparts are in our hands. We took a few casualties, but the Chargers-“ the elf faltered in their reading. “Uh, the Chargers … I’m sorry, Inquisitor, there’s an analogy here that escapes me a little.”

Irala gestured, was handed the paper.

“The Chargers tore through them like … a Mabari who hasn’t seen beef for three months,” she read.

_Fereldans._

Irala glanced back up at the messenger, something which required her to crane her neck a little. They shrugged helplessly, and Irala returned her attention to the remainder of the message.

“Will secure the area and await your orders. Would have sent a postcard, but couldn’t find a … gift shop?”

What, for the sake of the gods, was a gift shop? The paper was signed off with a simple ‘N’, squeezed into the bottom right hand corner; Irala noted that the writing had become increasingly cramped the closer it got to the edge of the paper. That, somehow, seemed to suit Noell.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” said Irala. The messenger gave her an uncertain smile. “Thank you,” Irala translated, a little sharply.

“No problem, your worship. It’s what I’m here for,” they chirped, seeming not to notice her tone. “Is scout Harding around, my lady? I have a couple of reports for her, too.”

Irala nodded and turned with a gesture. “Yes. Follow me and I’ll bring you to her. I should discuss the captain’s message with her anyway.”

The other elf trotting along in her wake, Irala headed further into the trenches. Even if her mood was dark, there was a silver lining to be found in these successes. Perhaps that would be enough to provide her a lift, if everything continued to go smoothly.

 

* * *

 

“Dead ahead. You see them?”

Scout Harding lay flat on her stomach alongside Irala, both of them stretched out on the ground. Behind the two of them were the remainder of the Inquisition party, crouched down and silent. After seizing the western ramparts, they’d departed the following morning, leaving a skeleton crew to garrison it. Reinforcements from the main force would arrive later in the day, but Irala didn’t want to waste any time in the Inquisition’s push. They had strong momentum to ride, and she didn’t intend to waste it.

Cautiously, Irala raised her head to peek above the crest of a hill. Beyond, the terrain dipped into a sheltered valley, within which were camped quite a number of men. Well-armed, organised enough to have sentries posted, but not wearing any kind of livery or uniform. Irala, however, knew who they were. The so-called ‘Freemen of the Dales’; she’d met their like back in the Emerald Graves. Typical shemlen, claiming ownership of lands they had no right to, acting aggrieved that anyone would dare to dispute otherwise.

Irala shuffled back from the hilltop, and the Freemen encampment disappeared from view. While it would be simple enough to slip by, Irala wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving a hostile force at her back. They _would_ be hostile, because as far as Irala could tell, Freemen hated anyone who wasn’t them. Besides, Irala was just itching for a fight. One on her terms, not some stuck-up chevalier’s. Even so, the Inquisition was outnumbered here. As much as Irala wanted to go storming out and lead the assault then and there, she had to think with her leader head screwed on.

“All right…” Irala twisted around to face the troops. “Freeman camp ahead in the valley. We’re dealing with it before we move on.”

“That rabble?” the voice was all too familiar. Guillaume, alongside his chevaliers and his sister, was at the front of the group. Strangely, he was the odd man out; the only one of the Orlesians who wasn’t wearing a helm that incorporated some kind of mask. It did, however, have a very fancy plume. “Hit them hard and fast, and they will break,” Guillaume smacked one mailed fist into the other. “I can lead the cha-“ Anamarie thumped him on the shoulder. Not gently.

Guillaume stopped. Cleared his throat. “That is my suggestion, anyway,” he muttered.

Irala didn’t even bother to glare at him. She thought for a moment, and then looked across at her men. “We’ll split in two and hit them with a pincer attack. Open with a volley to shake them up.”

“That will take too long!” Guillaume burst out. “What if the second group is spotted? This is a needless-”

“Are there any _other_ objections?” Irala cut across him, and he subsided with a snarl.

Nobody voiced any.

The plan was drawn up swiftly. Harding would take the bulk of the scouts, including the mage, Domenico, and sneak around to the opposite side of the valley. Once they were in position, he’d send up some sparks, and Irala would begin the ranged attack. With Harding’s replying salvo, Irala would then lead the charge alongside Blackwall, Cole, the remaining scouts, and Guillaume’s chevaliers.

Not precisely the height of strategy, but a good sight more elegant than ‘just run at them and hope for the best’.

Irala caught the head scout by the arm as she got up to leave. “Good luck, Harding,”

That crooked half smile of hers. “Thanks, your worship. Won’t be a minute.”

And then there was the waiting. Crouched down behind the crest of the hill, waiting for the signal, or else the hue and cry that signified that they were rumbled.

“You know, if they catch us out, we’re right fucked,” Blackwall remarked conversationally from alongside her.

“They won’t.”

Blackwall chuckled. “Aye, that’s about what I expected.”

Irala frowned, glanced across at him. His eyes were trained on the horizon, searching for Domenico’s lights. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she muttered.

He shrugged. “You’re confident. Always have been. Means you get things done,” he rubbed his chin through the beard, then added, almost as an afterthought. “Also means you don’t leave room for admitting fault.”

She snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re taking the chevalier’s side.”

“I’m taking Sera’s.”

Irala jolted. “That isn’t…” she clenched a fist, hard, ground it into the dirt. “There aren’t any sides to take, Blackwall. It’s over. It’s done.”

“Really now.”

What in _Elgar’nan’s_ name did she have to do to get her fucking friends to leave her alone? Was she not making it clear enough that she really, _really_ didn’t want to talk about this? Maybe she should take the Winter Palace approach and start throwing people into water features every time they mentioned Sera.

“Not. The. Time. Ranier,” she growled.

Blackwall sighed heavily and shut up. He knew she only used his real name when she was dead serious.

Twenty, thirty minutes of tense silence, and then glittering sparks shot up into the distant air. Irala raised a hand, then stabbed forward with two fingers. Around her, bowstrings creaked, and then twanged.

Before the last shafts left their moorings, Irala was on her feet and moving. Sword in one hand, shield in the other, Inquisition arms blazed across its surface. Cries of shock and pain split the air, and moments later the chorus swelled into the panicked alarm of a camp realising it was under attack.

Irala was first over the hilltop, saw, off in the distance, Harding’s troops beginning their own charge. And then there was no more time for looking across the valley, because Irala was thundering down the slope at the head of her soldiers. Someone behind her screamed something she didn’t understand – Orlesian? – and Irala took the sound, turned it into a battle cry of her own. Wordless anger, a shout at not just the shems scrambling below her, but anything and everything that had happened over the past few months.

The yelling didn’t make her feel much better. There was, however, visceral satisfaction to ramming into the first man who stood in her way hard enough to send him flying into two of his fellows. From that point, training took over, and Irala hurled herself whole-heartedly into the fray. For once, she didn’t need to give a damn about tactics or a wider threat. There was this fight, and this fight alone. The plan had been executed and all that was left was seeing it through to its conclusion.

Irala’s shield made firm contact with a man’s jaw. He dropped. Her sword slashed through the air, dealt a debilitating strike to another’s arm. Her heart sang with vicious exultation. In the thick of battle. This was where she belonged. It was what she was good at, the one place she could cut loose and not have to _worry._ Not about the Inquisition, or faith, or Sera. Anything.

Gods. She needed this.

Rapidly, the skirmish descended into a desperate melee. Against the odds, the Freemen held – or perhaps the pincer attack left them with no avenue of retreat. While Irala’s wing met with success, pressing the Freemen back further and further, a frantic voice split the air. Lace Harding.

“Form up, form up!” she called, loud enough to be heard above the clash of blades.

That snapped Irala out of her combat high in a hurry. “Guillaume!” she barked. “Reinforce Harding!”

“Inquisitor!” the chevalier rattled off a rapid string of orders to his men, went charging through the melee, leaving dead and dying Freemen in their wake.

There was a shouted curse, and then a spray of blood. The Inquisition man directly in front of Irala fell, clutching his face. He was replaced by a hulking Freeman, who flicked gore from his weapon and grinned a grin filled with perfect teeth. Irala took that as an invitation and attacked, driving him back a step as he defended himself. Their blades clashed against one another, once, twice, again, the man’s face reddening with each unsuccessful assault. Irala swung her shield at his face and he staggered, narrowly avoiding the sword swipe which followed.

A deep cry of pain resounded from her right flank. Irala heard the clatter of something hitting the ground, followed by a ferocious torrent of cursing. Metal clashed, and Irala’s heart skipped a beat as a choked gurgle hit her ears. A heavy crash; somebody had fallen. Irala started to turn her head to look, then tore her attention away and back to her own adversary just in time to parry a killing thrust aimed straight for her heart.

The Freeman squaring off to her glared, reigning in his wayward blade and turning aside Irala’s retaliatory slash.

He snarled, brandishing his sword. “The Dales belong to us-“

“ _Ghilas’din in’alas!_ ” Irala lunged forward and impaled him through the open mouth, then wrenched clear her sword as he went down, collapsing without a sound. She didn’t even spare a glance at him, whirling to see what had happened.

Blackwall sprawled on the floor, clutching at his right arm. Blood was seeping through the partially-crushed armour encasing the limb, staining it. “Maker’s balls!” he groaned, breath hissing between his teeth. A Freeman lay alongside him in a growing pool of blood, Blackwall’s weapon sticking from a huge rent in the man’s cuirass.

“Blackwall!” Irala started for him. Around her, the melee was breaking down, the ranks of the Freemen crumbling, some of their number already fleeing the field. One, however, attempted to block her path, swinging an axe for her head. Without missing a step, Irala raised her shield, deflecting the vicious blow to the side and countering with a backhanded swipe that laid the man’s face open to the bone. A strangled cry, and he was gone.

A pair of fighters suddenly interposed themselves between Irala and her stricken comrade. One a burly Freeman, the other… Irala recognised Anamarie’s leonine helmet with a start. The two of them had somehow lost their blades during the skirmish, and were locked in a violent hand-to-hand brawl. Both were bruised and bloodied, although the Inquisition woman looked to be on top, holding one of the Freeman’s arms trapped underneath her own while repeatedly punching him in the face.

Irala darted past, clenching her teeth in frustration at having to waste precious moments going around. She vented a modicum of it by kicking Anamarie’s opponent in the back of the knee. The man yelped, crumpling backward, and Anamarie immediately exploited the opening, slipping her leg behind his and then slamming him to the ground. Irala didn’t stop to see how it panned out, beyond them and moving unerringly towards where she’d last seen Blackwall.

Someone stumbled into her way, reeling. A crimson mask obscured their face, blood streaming from an open wound at eye level – across their chest, however, Irala noted the Inquisition’s emblem. A lusty roar met her ears, and instinctively, Irala shouldered the wounded combatant aside, intercepting an onrushing Freeman. Feet not properly set, Irala’s block was a hasty one, and the sheer force of the impact knocked her off balance. The Freeman, wielding his blade in both hands, brought it back around for a return stroke – and a knife appeared at his throat, slashing it open. He dropped to his knees, gargling blood. Irala caught the faintest glimpse of a distinctive wide-brimmed hat, and then Cole had vanished once again.

Finally unimpeded, Irala looked forward and there was Blackwall, struggling to retrieve his shield as yet another enemy fighter bore down upon him. No time left; Irala charged. In spite of her thundering footsteps, her target had eyes only for finishing Blackwall, and failed to notice her.

Irala slammed into the man from the side, throwing all of her momentum into a sword thrust that could have felled a dragon. Her blade pierced through the Freeman’s armour, right in the pit of his arm. Stricken, her adversary fell, taking Irala’s weapon with him, driven practically straight through his torso. She let him drop, snapped around to locate Blackwall.

Mythal’s mercy, he was all right. Wounded, barely into a seated position, but all right. Irala moved into a protective post, standing between her friend and any new assailants with her shield raised. However, it quickly became clear that all the fight had been knocked out of the Freemen already; those that weren’t in full retreat were sprawled on the ground, severely injured or worse.

She breathed a sigh of relief and went back to the grumbling warden. That was a good sign, actually; if he was capable of complaint, then he couldn’t be too badly hurt.

“Let’s get you on your feet,” Irala told him, leaning down and offering her arm. Blackwall grabbed onto her shoulder, and with her assistance, managed to clamber up. He gave a grunt of pain, wounded arm still hanging limply at his side.

“Bloody flames. You’d think the bastards would know when to quit.”

“You heard them. They think they’re ‘free’, believe Dirthavaren to be theirs,” Irala clamped down on bubbling anger. “To them, that’s worth dying for.”

“Hrm,” Blackwall fell silent, allowing her to escort him to where the Inquisition party were gathering. Here and there, soldiers picked out the wounded from the dead, offering treatment and failing that, comfort. Enemy combatants were secured, and then given aid in kind. Personal feelings aside, Irala wasn’t callous enough to leave people to die who could be helped. Irala took a moment to survey the area, and she grimaced. There looked to be a great many injuries, and worse besides. She’d not expected the Freemen to be so resilient, and while having the element of surprise had undoubtedly helped, this was far from the swift and decisive victory Irala had wanted. Had she misjudged the situation so badly?

A blood-streaked Harding awaited her. Not all of it belonged to other people. The dwarf gave a very tired salute, standing at a slightly lopsided attention.

“Good to see you in one piece, your worship,” Harding said quietly, her eyes looking through Irala, sweeping the battlefield beyond.

“Same to you,” Irala hesitated. “Got a little rough for a bit there.”

Harding nodded. “Ser Guillaume really saved our bacon. That was too close.”

Irala swallowed. “Losses?”

A shadow fell across the scout’s face. “Half our men are dead or injured, Inquisitor. This wasn’t worth it.”

Irala’s shoulders slumped. She… thought that she’d been making the right call. They’d had to engage, or risk being attacked from behind. “All right. At ease, Harding. See to the wounded.”

“Ma’am,” Harding turned away, but not before Irala caught her expression. Sorrowful. Frustrated. This battle hadn’t just cost Harding troops, it had cost her friends.

 _Fenedhis_. Where was her head?

Irala sat Blackwall down on a rock. He grimaced behind his beard, and then sighed, rolling the shoulder of his bad arm.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he began.

“Then don’t say it-“

“Shut up and listen,” Blackwall growled. Irala was startled into silence. “You-“ he punctuated the word by jabbing a finger at her. “Need to pull your head out of your bloody arse. Do you know why that plan didn’t work?”

“It worked. We won,” said Irala without conviction.

Blackwall ignored her. “It didn’t work because it needed Sera. Sera’s arrows and Sera’s crazy flasks,” he leaned back on his rock and shook his head. “You don’t even realise, do you? That plan was tailor made for having Sera here.”

Irala locked her hands together to restrain either from lashing out. “It’d be great if people could stop talking about me and Sera for five seconds.”

“Maker’s balls. Listen to me! This isn’t about that! You got people killed today, Irala!”

“I…” she faltered. Oh Creators he was right.

Her temples throbbed and her vision swam, as if the reality of what she’d caused was crushing down on her head.

“I need some time,” Irala mumbled, and staggered away from him.

Mythal’s mercy what the hells was she doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ghilas’din in’alas!" - is, roughly, "Go die in the dirt!"


	8. Chapter 8

Irala pulled back her force to the western ramparts. Pressing on with so many wounded would be to invite disaster, and they had prisoners, besides. Most of all, the skirmish in the valley had made it abundantly clear that Irala needed – badly – to reassess how she was approaching the operation.

She’d screwed up. There were no two ways about it. Irala had treated a small scale battle like it was just her and a few of her companions. She’d been so desperate for a fight that she hadn’t stopped to consider the danger. Now good men and women were dead, and it was because of her. Being used to having to worry about three other people at most was no excuse. Irala was in charge; keeping in mind every angle was quite literally her job.

This was why she let people like Cullen handle the strategy. Why hadn’t she just played it safe?

_Thwip. Thwip. Thwip._

Irala stood in front of an archery butt, a longbow held tightly in her hand and a quiver hooked at her waist. She hardly bothered aiming, just nocking arrow after arrow and loosing them one after another. It didn’t really count as practice. She wasn’t concentrating enough for it to be practice in anything but speed, and speed was worthless without focus. It was telling that as many of her shafts were hitting the wall behind the target as the target itself. Archery was something that she’d learned as a child, expected of her rather than as a hobby. Irala wouldn’t have been much of a hunter if she couldn’t use a bow, after all.

Wasn’t her thing, though. Archery had always been more of a prelude to what had really caught her interest. Irala could still remember the first time she held a _dar’misu_. She’d hardly been eight years old, and had seen the knife sitting on _Hahren_ Larrith’s workbench, awaiting sharpening. Immediately curious, she’d picked it up, held it out in front of her, imagining she was jabbing it in the face of a dangerous animal, protecting the clan. Larrith had caught her just a moment later and given her quite the scolding, but that was where the fascination had started. Arms and armour, the techniques for using them and maintaining them. She’d become a regular visitor to Larrith’s aravel, constantly looking over his shoulder and peering at what he was doing. Larrith noted her interest and passed it on to the Keeper, only a few months after catching her with the dagger. When the Keeper asked what it was Irala wanted from observing Larrith, she’d hardly thought twice before saying that she wanted to master all of the weapons.

Not the ambition the Keeper had been expecting, Irala didn’t think. Instead of being set to training – she was still a child, after all – the Keeper told her to keep learning from Larrith. Over time, as Irala got older, that developed into a full apprenticeship to the craftsman. Irala had… well, she’d done her best, the way a dutiful dalish should. However, she’d lacked much talent for smithing, and while she had a knack for smaller carvings, trying to work actual equipment from wood had been an exercise in frustration. Not particularly enamoured with the idea of spending all her time making trinkets, Irala, then in her teens, had returned to the Keeper and restated her desire to learn to _use_ the weapons, not how to make them.

The Keeper had agreed with obvious reluctance. Perhaps she thought that Irala’s interest would die off, or that she’d give up once she realised how hard that kind of martial training would be, or maybe even that Irala would find one weapon she liked and stick with it. If so, she was badly mistaken. Irala was thrilled to be given the chance to finally pursue her goals, and had committed to it wholeheartedly. The _dar’misaan_ came first, learning the myriad methods of wielding the larger blade from the older members of her clan. Most favoured the direct approach; two hands, strength and speed. Others preferred using it one handed, working more cautiously for an opening. Some combined the single hand with a shield, for added protection. Irala absorbed all the information she could, all the tips and tricks and advice, trying out and practicing each style obsessively. Then the _dar’misu_ ; on its own, with another of its like, with the _dar’misaan_ , forehand, backhand, how best to throw it, if it came to that. Irala had found her passion. The more she knew, the more she wanted to know. At Arlathven, she had pursued the weapons masters from other clans, learned of the greataxe, the _dal’thanaan_ , and its smaller cousin, the _dal’thanu_ , and had spent practically every moment studying techniques from the experts.

Irala knew that she had a long way to go in order to reach the summit of this mountain. Maybe she’d never reach it; the Inquisition had certainly cut into her ability to practice and learn, even as it had expanded her breadth of knowledge. Still, the awareness that the goal could be unattainable didn’t dissuade her. She’d known that when she first started off down this path, and it hadn’t stopped her then, either. Truthfully, this quest had evolved beyond a desire to preserve dalish culture. While that was still important to her, being in the human lands had taught Irala that there was just as much that could be learned elsewhere. If she could take techniques picked up from the shems, from Orlesians and qunari and Tevene, combine them with her dalish expertise? Then Irala was creating something new. Something hers. And if it was hers, then not only was it one step closer to that distant pinnacle, but so too was it _elven_.

Someday she’d go back to clan Lavellan and pass on what she knew. She’d promised herself that much.

Until then, however, Irala was stuck plinking away at an archery target, stewing over her own mistakes. She wanted quite desperately to spar with somebody, but she didn’t trust herself to keep her emotions in check and play nice. When Irala needed to vent, considerations like holding back didn’t tend to come into play. That wouldn’t have been a problem if Cassandra or Bull were here – or Blackwall wasn’t injured. They could all handle her when she got rough. Ask for a volunteer from the soldiers here, and someone was going to wind up getting hurt. The only _other_ option was to invite Guillaume or one of his chevaliers for a session… but that would then require her to explain to Empress Celene why her men were being returned broken. She couldn’t even take it out on a training dummy because there _weren’t any_. Apparently, the ramparts hadn’t been stocked with those particular pieces of equipment.

Irala hated Orlais.

A distinctly _un_ -Orlesian sound hit her ears a few haphazard shafts later. A dog barked, loud, enthusiastic, and surprisingly close by. Irala turned around, and had just enough time to see one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of mabari barrelling towards her before the animal went airborne and slammed into her at chest height. A pair of spadelike paws connected with her shoulders, and Irala was knocked flying from her feet, the dog landing on top of her and crushing the wind from her chest. Instinctively, Irala went to her waist for her hunting knife, one arm attempting to guard her face against the beast’s jaws as its slavering maw pressed down on her from above-

And licked her right across the mouth. Irala spluttered, and the dog took the opportunity to do it again. Not an attack, she realised, but an overly-friendly greeting. All of a sudden she was giggling, trying to fend the mabari off from its ferocious (and slobbery) assault. Her struggles were to no avail; it had her well and truly pinned down, and no amount of wriggling this way and that was getting it off of her.

“Dane! Get off the Inquisitor you silly bastard!” called a familiar voice.

 The mabari – Dane, barked and then bounded clear, standing attentively alongside her with his stub of a tail wagging madly. Irala pulled herself up into a seated position, wiping dog drool from her jaw with the back of her arm. Sure enough, just a short distance away stood the mabari’s owner, hands on her hips, a heavily bandaged bicep, and a broad grin on her face.

“Sorry about that, Inquisitor,” said Noell. Her black mop had been tamed into a rebellious bun, although that still seemed to leave rather a lot of hair unaccounted for. “Dane thinks he’s still a puppy. Don’t you, boy? Are you a great big puppy?”

Dane barked in agreement, and was answered by a snorted laugh. Irala looked past Noell and spotted Bull standing behind her.

“Scariest puppy I ever saw. Went through those skeletons like a damn whirlwind.”

“Aww, he just wanted to play. He thought all those bones were treats for him to fetch,” Noell winked.

Irala smiled as she got up to her feet, shaking her head. “Good to see I can count on you both to save me from getting savaged.”

Bull snickered. Noell immediately looked mortified. “Uh, oh, um. Sorry, Inquisitor. He really didn’t mean any harm. You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“My injuries are grave, but I’ll survive,” Irala told her solemnly.

“Inquisitor! He d-doesn’t usually bite…” Noell frowned as Irala laughed. “Oh. Ohhhh,” she threw up both hands and glanced over her shoulder to Bull. “The Inquisitor is a jerk, Bull.”

“Yup,” Bull replied cheerfully.  “Too late for you now, Captain. She’s decided you’re fair game.”

“You two seem like you’re getting along well,” said Irala.

“Bull and the Chargers were great to work with, your worship. Couldn’t have asked for a better first operation.”

Bull grinned. “I like this one, boss. Can we keep her?”

“Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Bull.”

A throaty chuckle from the qunari.

“Careful,” warned Irala. “He’ll take that as a challenge.”

Noell cocked an eyebrow in Bull’s direction and then, a smile spreading across her face, raised both fists.

He burst out laughing, and just a moment later, Noell joined him, all but doubling over, shoulders shaking with her mirth. Irala watched them both, her own smile growing a little wider. Her hunch had been right; they were already getting along like a house on fire.

“Please don’t start hitting each other.”

Bull and Noell exchanged glances.

“Killjoy,” they said together.

Irala groaned. “You at least have to let me get in on it.”

Bull clapped Noell on the shoulder. “Damn, Captain. Making jokes is one thing, but saying she’ll kick the crap out of you? I’d say you’ve got into Irala’s good graces in record time.”

“Bull!” all right, she did like Noell, but did Bull really need to go and spill everything? Irala was still in that place where she wasn’t quite sure whether she could count the captain as a friend yet. Figured that Bull would be thick as thieves with her after one battle.

The qunari laughed, held out his palms. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop,” he paused, and then gestured towards the well-peppered target beyond Irala. “Looks as though you’ve been busy.”

She sighed. “Trying to clear my head. And I still don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know, boss. Still… I heard there was a nasty skirmish with some Freemen.”

Irala’s shoulders slumped. Bull’s tone was casual, but his meaning was clear; ‘What the hell happened?’

“We ambushed them. It… didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Turned into a pitched battle.”

Noell laced her hands together behind her head. “They held, huh? Hmm…” she leaned backward, stretching. “Probably didn’t have enough heavy hitters to overwhelm them. Could have used a team of mabari.”

“That’s the Fereldan solution to everything. More dogs,” said Irala.

“Well it usually works!”

“Crop shortages,” challenged Bull.

“Mabari guarding the fields to fend off bandits or pests.”

“Lost hat.”

“Mabari scenting it and finding it for you.”

Bull folded his arms. “Succession crisis.”

“Mabari judging the worthiness of the claimants,” Noell was grinning broadly.

“That’s…” Bull trailed off. “You know what? I could actually see you guys trusting in a dog to mediate for you.”

“Ouch, Bull! You’d really believe we’d let a mabari decide something like that?”

“Can’t tell with Ferel-“

“We’d need a council of at least _three_ mabari.”

Bull smacked a hand against his head.

Irala snorted. Noell turned her attention to her. “Anyway. It can’t always go perfectly. And hey, you took the ramparts with a lot less men than I had.”

Irala shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. I should have done better. Much better. And as for the ramparts…” she made a noise of disgust. “That was luck. And a bloody chevalier.”

Noell stepped forward and for a moment, looked as if she was about to wrap an arm around Irala’s shoulder, before thinking better of it, dropping her hand. “Don’t worry, Inquisitor! I’m Fereldan! We can talk about how terrible Orlesians are together!”

Bull side-eyed the captain. “I think grudges are the one thing that give dogs a run for their money in your country.”

She shrugged. “Ehh… I just don’t like being looked down on. Orlesians were an age ago. Darkspawn? Those are worth hating,” a mischievous glint in her eye. “Even if the smell’s the same.”

“The Blight, huh?” said Bull.

Noell sobered suddenly. “Yeah. The Blight. My father’s lands were crawling with darkspawn.”

Irala felt a pang of sympathy. “Losing your home isn’t easy.”

The captain’s eyebrows rose. “What? No. They didn’t _take_ it. We fought the bastards off.”

Irala frowned, peering closely at Noell. She hadn’t misjudged another human’s age, had she? The Blight was twelve years ago, and Noell looked to be in her twenties. She surely couldn’t be that much older than Irala, and yet if she’d fought… “We as in… you, personally?”

“I’m told my mother fainted when she found out I’d taken command of our guard,” Noell shrugged. “Somebody had to. My father would have just had us sit behind the walls and let the smallfolk be slaughtered. Wouldn’t matter to him as long as _we_ were safe,” Noell shook her head, scowling. “Didn’t need to be an adult to know that was horseshit. The guards… agreed. They had families out there.”

“How… how old _were_ you?” Irala stared.

Noell rubbed her chin. “Fourteen? Dane was barely fully grown. Saved my arse more times than I can count,” the mabari barked, wagging his tail. Noell leaned over and patted him on the head. “Yes! Yes you did! Who’s my beautiful darkspawn-mauler?”

Twenty-six now, then. The same age as her. Irala almost felt a little ashamed; back when she’d been studying under Larrith, Noell had been fighting for her life. Irala had only ever seen a handful of scattered darkspawn and had no desire to see any more. To defend helpless people against a Blight at just fourteen…

Bull whistled. “No shit. Damn. No wonder you’re such a badass. You’ve been at it since you were a kid,” he took a healthy swig from his waterskin, slowly nodding.

“Nawww,” Noell scuffed a boot bashfully. “Don’t make it out to be more than what it was. I was lucky. The soldiers did the heavy lifting, and made damn sure to keep me safe. I was just… there.”

“Didn’t die,” Bull pointed out. “Pretty damn impressive against darkspawn. Not like they would have gone easy on you,” he leaned forward, thoughtful. “Don’t underestimate morale, either. You were their lord’s kid. That’s big.”

Irala tilted her head to the side. “So you’re… a noble?” Noell definitely didn’t _act_ like Irala’s expectation of a human noble. Usually anyone with a title was all too eager to wave it around.

“Eh? I guess. Father’s a Bann. We don’t get along great,” Noell grinned again. “I spose that stealing the household guard kinda showed him up. Spent… I dunno, the next ten years helping rebuild the bannorn and annoying him by being better at bedding women than my brothers.”  

There was a spluttering from Bull as water sprayed from his mouth. He began to laugh and choke simultaneously. “Nice!” he managed.   

Noell’s smirk turned devilish. “Drove him crazy. Couldn’t marry me off when my preferences were so public. Couldn’t send me away when all the freeholders liked me. ‘Course, wound up choosing to leave when the sky started blowing up, and I guess you know the rest,” another shrug. “And that’s my life story, short a bunch of drunk wrestling, hound training, and raising hell with my brothers.”

“It’s a good story,” Irala said after a moment, still a little taken aback with Noell being so free with such personal details. Irala wouldn’t have ventured sharing her own childhood with people she didn’t know well, and hers had hardly been as difficult as the captain’s sounded. “I hope we’re not going to get too boring for you.”

“I’ll let you know, Ir- Inquisitor,” Noell straightened, as if struck by an abrupt realisation. “But we’ve managed two years, and you folks made the mistake of putting me in charge,” she smiled again, but it was softer, more wry. “Seriously, though? I like being a part of this, and for as long as you’ll have me, I’m here. Commander Cullen put a lot of faith in me, and I’m not gonna let him down. I’m not gonna let _you_ down.”

She spoke with such fervour and intensity that Irala knew she was sincere. “I appreciate that, Noell.”

The captain cleared her throat and dropped her eyes. “A-anyway. I should get back to it. Nice talking to you Inquisitor. Bull,” she saluted and set off, whistling to Dane. The mabari nosed Bull’s leg affectionately, and then scampered off after his master.

Bull watched them until they turned the corner of the trench and disappeared out of sight. Only then did he face Irala again. “She’s good, boss. Pretty damn good.”

“Yeah?” Bull’s opinion was one Irala knew that she could count on, especially in military matters. Having an independent, objective eye assessing the troops’ performance was valuable.

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah. She’s cool under pressure and thinks fast on her feet. Cullen made a good call with her,” he rolled his shoulder, then shrugged. ‘Course, undead aren’t really known for their brains, so might not wanna call her a strategic genius just yet.”

Irala leaned down and picked up her bow, considering. “Good to hear. I’d hate to start getting attached to an officer who can’t do their job,” which was maybe a little cruel, but also necessary. Irala couldn’t afford to be sentimental, and there were plenty of people in the Inquisition who she liked well enough without trusting them to lead soldiers.

“And sounds like we can count on her to stick around, too,” Bull folded his arms. “Everyone’s still fired up after we took out Corypheus. That’s not gonna last forever. The less committed folks are gonna start drifting away, sooner or later.”

“Honestly I’m surprised we haven’t lost more yet,” from the occasional ravens they’d received from back at Skyhold, everything was still running smoothly. Between Cullen, Josephine and Charter, all necessary facets of the organisation were covered. Irala had worried they’d struggle without Leliana, spymaster and one of the founding arms of the Inquisition, but so far those fears were unfounded.

“That one’s on you, boss.”

Irala squinted at Bull. Didn’t seem to be poking fun at her, for once. “Yeah, they just can’t resist my glowing personality,” there was no trace of bitterness. Irala had never claimed to be a people person; Josephine was, and it looked exhausting.

Bull grunted. “Don’t make me throw you again. Inquisition wouldn’t have even made it off the ground without you. Sure as hell wouldn’t have beat Corypheus,” he flicked at her ear with a meaty finger and Irala ducked, knowing from experience how much it hurt. “Now quit it with the self-doubting crap. Doesn’t suit you.”

Irala scowled at him. “Right. Forgot I wasn’t allowed to just be an elf anymore.”

“Never said that. But if you’re not gonna talk about what’s actually bothering you, then I’m not gonna let you stand around feeling sorry for yourself about something you know damn well isn’t true.”

Whatever. Not as if she constantly had doubts over her leadership, and whether she was the best suited person for the job. Not as if she’d worried that the moment Corypheus was gone, having an elf in a position of power would see all their allies turn on them. Everything had to come back to her relationships. Clearly.

Irala marched over to the archery butt and began to collect her arrows. She’d been thoroughly interrupted now, with little hope of managing to return to her thoughts.

“Chargers all okay?” Irala knew that Bull would pick up on her blatantly changing the subject, but didn’t especially care. They’d been friends for long enough that he’d take the hint, even if he didn’t like it.

Bull grunted, a clear signal of his displeasure at what she’d just done. “The boys are fine. Took a couple injuries, but nothing that Stitches couldn’t fix up. I was gonna head back to ‘em soon. You can tag along if you want. Pretty sure Dalish has spent the last week thinking of elf jokes that nobody else will get.”

“They’re puns, mostly,” Irala found herself smirking. She herself was no good at wordplay, but the novelty of conducting it in elven was undeniable, and made the dreadful puns far funnier than they had any right to be.

“Really? Damn. Now I really wish I could understand.”

Pausing as she leaned down for another shaft, Irala raised an eyebrow at him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s terrible jokes that get you interested in my language, _lethallin._ ”

“Hey, only thing worse than a bad joke is a bad joke you can’t inflict on other people.”

“Yeah, well…” Irala shook her head as she straightened. “Find a different teacher. Instruction doesn’t suit me.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Bull regarded her as she gathered up the last of her arrows. “So you gonna come with, or what?”

Irala shook her head again. “I have an excursion to plan. Sorry.”

“What kind? Don’t tell me you waited for all these reinforcements to arrive just so we could sit on our hands.”

“No. Our forces are securing the area and making sure it’s defensible before we move on. That'll take time though, and there have been some small rifts sighted to the west. I’m taking a group to close them.”

“Gotcha,” Bull tilted back his head. “You know I’m always up for kicking some demon ass, boss. If you need me, Krem can lead the Chargers.”

“I want you with them for now, Bull,” she slid a handful of arrows into her quiver. "I don't like changing leadership roles on the fly."

“All right. You’re the boss. Who you bringing with you then?”

“Cassandra. Dorian, and…” Irala gritted her teeth and then forced the final name out. “And Sera.”  


	9. Chapter 9

 “Still surprised you asked me to come, Herald.” 

The tension, instantly, was suffocating. Herald. That was what Sera had settled on calling Irala? She’d hardly been expecting Sera to go on using a pet name, yet ‘Herald’ just seemed so dispassionate, especially when Sera knew full well it was a title she disliked. Irala could have… tolerated Inquisitor, even if the formality would have torn at her. Her name would have felt strange, reminding her of what they’d had, taunting her by being familiar, but not intimate.

Herald, though… That had to be deliberate. Sera wasn’t stupid; in fact she was quite the opposite, as much as some might have mistaken her occasional ineloquence for unintelligence. She knew exactly what she was saying by using an unwanted title.

“You’re skilled, Sera,” Irala would have liked to claim she said it evenly, but would have been lying. “I thought we might need you along.”

“Good to know I’m _needed_.”

Irala stopped short, tried to think of a reply. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Two seconds, three. She shook her head and continued walking, moving along the top of the hilltop crest they’d reached a minute or two ago. If she could deal with a parade of Orlesian nobles and an interfering chevalier, she could deal with Sera being snide. They didn’t need to like one another, they just needed to coexist.

Creators, she was already getting a headache and they’d scarcely been out here an hour. Under normal circumstances, Irala would have felt perfectly at ease; her and three friends and nothing else to worry about. No troops that she need order, or outsiders that she had to put on a face for. Instead, she was on edge, ears straining, waiting for another remark from behind her, wondering whether it would be this time that her temper snapped, this time that she said something else that she could not take back. Except, Irala reminded herself bitterly, that these _were_ normal circumstances now.

However, the only other label she could apply was _before_. And she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Before the temple of Mythal. Before the Well of Sorrows. Before she and Sera argued and split apart. Because to call it ‘before’ was to admit that there was no going back, that it was now ‘after’. After Corypheus. After the argument. After… after _them_.

There wasn’t an ‘us’ any longer. As much as Irala wanted to forget that and move on, as much as she didn’t want to talk to her friends about it, having Sera right there made blanking it out completely impossible.

“I see a demony thingy.”

Irala did look back at Sera this time, grateful for a potential distraction. She still wanted to hit something. Preferably several somethings. “Where?” 

She gestured, pointing towards an outcropping a ways off in the distance. Irala squinted, frowned. That was not a rift. That was terrain.

“Behind the rock?”

Sera nodded. “You can see the glow. That shiny greeny shite.”

Irala shaded her eyes with her hand. She knew the telltale light Sera was referring to, but couldn’t make out any sign of it. The rocks remained as stubbornly rocklike as ever, even as she strained her eyes to the point of her vision blurring. After that intent study, however, she straightened up and gave Sera a withering look. “Hilarious, Sera.” 

“Uh… because demons are right funny. Entertain at all the nobby parties, don’t they?”

Ah, playing innocent. One of Sera’s favourite tactics, up there with not being around to take blame in the first place. “We have a job to do. There isn’t time for you to screw around, Sera. Do us all a favour and keep it to yourself next time.”

Sera’s eyes widened in surprise, and then just as quickly narrowed into a glare. “I’m not joking!” she said indignantly. “Why would I even mess you about like that?”

“Why do you do anything?” Irala snapped, patience wearing thin. “I can never tell.”

“To help people out, you arse!”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should continue onward,” she interjected. “This argument-“

Irala cut across her. “The glow Sera’s talking about isn’t there,” another cold stare Sera’s way. “And I’m not in the mood for playacting.”

“You mean because your elfy eyes can’t see it, that I have to be lying?”

“That’s not what I-“ Irala clenched her fists until her gauntlets creaked. “No. You know what? I’m done talking about this,” she shifted her eyes to Dorian and Cassandra. “Let me know when she starts acting like an adult.”

Sera swore at her, then made an obscene gesture for good measure. Irala swung away and began to stomp off, seething.

“Not that I don’t adore seeing the two of you at one another’s throats, but perhaps we’d be best served concentrating on the task at hand?”

“That’s what I’m _trying_ to do, Dorian.”

The tevene muttered something under his breath. Irala decided to ignore it. She was already pissed off with one person here; she shouldn’t let Sera’s immaturity make her snap at her friends. Even the aggravatingly diplomatic ones that wouldn’t acknowledge who was in the right-

She cut the thought off. Focus. Focus. She needed to-

But this _was_ ridiculous. Why had she bothered listening to Blackwall again? Irala had let her guilt over the botched skirmish cloud her judgement, her judgement which had told her that it was best to stay away from Sera until the emotional wounds had healed. Which was essentially indefinitely, but Irala was fine with that. The success of Inquisition operations was too important to be compromised by spats like these ones, which was the entire reason she’d made damn sure she wasn’t working closely with Sera in the first place.

 _Stupid_. She should have known better than to count on Sera keeping a lid on her pranks and immaturity. Hadn’t Sera already demonstrated on the march that she had no intention of behaving herself? According to Bull, she’d done just fine while at the eastern ramparts with the Chargers and the others, which just made this even more frustrating. It meant that Sera was specifically trying to get on Irala’s nerves now; apparently she had ventured beyond her ‘upset’ stage and progressed to expressing her feelings with pettiness.

Irala kept on down the hill, her boots kicking up puffs of dirt with each stomping step, the heavy metal gouging into the earth. Even the world’s worst tracker would have had little trouble following in her wake.

She hoped they did. She hoped a thousand and one Freemen pursued and caught up to them.  Then, she could punch _every single one of them_ in the face. Preferably multiple times. Thankfully the others decided to exercise a little discretion for once and actually shut up. Irala was sick and tired of people trying to smooth things over, sick and tired of friends who couldn’t tell she just wanted to be left to herself, sick and tired of everything being about _fucking Sera._

She was walking more quickly now, reaching the bottom of the hill and onto the flatter terrain. She was beginning to feel like she really was being hounded, and not by anything physical. Mythal’s mercy, she wished that were the case. If her doubts were something that she could confront face to face, if the torrent of emotions swirling around her heart could be slain with a blade, it was a foe she would have faced gladly. She would have turned on the spot and launched herself headlong into the fray.

However, no matter how much she wished otherwise, Irala couldn’t do that. She was hoping for impossibilities. She could no more clash steel with her own heartache than she could turn to Sera and reconcile their differences, tearfully confess her love.

And it was just as much a brutal dagger to the guts to realise how badly she wanted to do the latter, too.

Irala glanced up for a moment. A humourless smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she recognised the tall rocky spire that Sera had pointed out to kick off this latest argument. Sure enough, there was no sign of a rift ahead, no matter how much Irala squinted. Though, perhaps she’d been moving too quickly, allowing her emotions to fill her with undue haste. She was feeling a little lightheaded, like a fog had seeped into her ears and around her mind. It was almost like clouds had slipped in front of her eyes, and that tingling sensation in her head, travelling down her spine- no, _up_ her spine.

Wait, her left hand. The one that held the anchor. It was-

“IRALA! WATCH OUT!”

There was an ear-splitting screech and a shrieking whirlwind of talons and twisted sinew crashed into Irala from above. The weight of her assailant crushed her to the ground with a crunch of armour, pain bursting across her ribs and back, still a little tender from the mishap with the druffalo. A moment later, her knee screamed out in protest as a foot stomped down upon it, pinning her down to the ground. Something hissed, the whistling of displaced air from the swing of a blade-

It was everything Irala could do to throw up her arms in a crossed motion, operating under instinct, and rewarded when sharp claws rasped across her vambraces with a squeal of tortured metal. For an instant, Irala swore that she saw sparks. Beyond the hasty guard, a demon loomed over her, a gangly green mess of razors and eyes and a gaping maw of fangs. Terrors were even uglier from this angle.

Frantic, yet somehow more focused than she’d been all day, Irala violently jerked to the side, raising her free leg to lash out with an upkick directly to what passed for the demon’s solar plexus. There was a sound like the snapping of dry tinder, and the terror shrieked, briefly recoiling, allowing Irala to yank her other leg out from underneath its foot. However, she didn’t have a chance to even start to rise before the creature dove back in with a vengeance. No way of avoiding it – again Irala braced herself to block, but with a horrible rending noise, her armour was torn loose from her arm, followed by an explosion of agony as those talons met her flesh.

She roared in pain and anger, warm blood spurting from the gaping wound in her forearm. Irala caught a glimpse of ragged strips of her own skin hanging from the row of gashes torn into her, a horrific mess of bone and gore. Again the demon stomped down, this time planting its foot directly onto her chest, pressing down, constricting her lungs, making it impossible to breathe-

A fireball took the terror full in the face and it shrieked, staggering backward. An instant later, one, two, three shafts thumped into the demon’s chest. It reeled further.

“I’D THANK YOU TO UNHAND MY FRIEND!” Dorian’s voice echoed from behind her, suffused with rage. Sizzling heat flashed overhead, and an explosion of fire even bigger than the first slammed into the demon with such force that it was knocked from its feet, flesh seared from the bone.

Strong hands looped underneath Irala’s armpits and hauled her up to her feet. She staggered backwards, but was steadied by a firm presence, which caught her before she could fall. Irala managed to turn, and found herself looking into Cassandra’s face. The Seeker maintained her grip on Irala’s shoulder, ensuring she remained upright, drawing her sword.

“On your guard, Irala!” she urged. “That was not the last of them!”

Irala’s arm was numb and limp. She didn’t even want to look to survey the damage. She didn’t _need_ to look to know how bad an injury it was. She drew her longsword awkwardly with her left hand – its scabbard was belted on the same side of her waist, and that hampered the motion, forcing her to twist her arm at an angle to pull it free. Thank the creators for her own diligence in practicing her swordplay with her off hand, or else this wound would have been even more crippling. As it stood, she could at least fence adequately, taking up the sideways stance favoured in Antiva, albeit usually with a thinner blade than this.

No time to dwell on that. A telltale rumbling growl, and a wave of demons flooded around the corner of the outcropping. The anchor upon Irala’s palm pulsed and fizzed, crackling with eldritch fade energy, resonating in time with the bright green aura which she could now see beyond the rocks. How had she missed it for so long? She’d been stood right here and been unable to discern even the faintest of glows, and yet there were the signs, plain as day.

She shook off her unease and shifted into fighting posture, Cassandra at her side, sword and shield in hand. The familiar _thwip_ of arrows flying free from Sera’s bow came from behind them; a shade collapsed in on itself, bellowing into nothingness. A _thrum_ , Dorian’s barriers settling into place over them, Irala’s magically attuned senses feeling the tevene expanding the influence of his powers, loosing his strength. It had been startling at first, realising that she could _feel_ magic in such a way, detect the ebb and flow of mana, bring the force of her own will crashing against it. Now, to know Dorian was at her back was simply reassuring.

And then there was no further time for thinking. The demons were upon them.

The first glowed molten red, cracks within its shapeless skin showing crevices of lava. Irala knew it for rage in an instant, knew how it would attack before it even lunged at her. Aggressive, brutally, overpoweringly strong.

Predictable.

Irala stepped inward, a long and loping shift in her stride, and then thrust her blade outward with pinpoint accuracy, burying it into the demon’s neck. With a flash of arcane energy, the runes etched into the sword ignited, burning along the blade, blindingly intense. Crackling blue light blossomed out from the demon’s throat, and with a distorted, shuddering roar, its form melted away, disintegrating.

It was quickly replaced by one of its fellows. Cassandra gave a raw shout, laced with intensity, and Irala _felt_ the seeker’s discipline behind the war cry, knew instinctively the technique she was utilising. A moment later, Irala’s sword began to glow, cloaked in the aura that Cassandra had summoned forth. Though she couldn’t spare the time to look, she knew that the weapons of her companions would share that same shining light, signifying the potent bane they now held for the demons.

Irala almost felt sorry for them.

Side-by-side, seeker and elven warrior, they advanced. Beyond, Dorian poured forth an inferno, arcing fire over their heads, throwing the demonic ranks into disarray. Arrows joined the blaze in an unrelenting volley, some of them catching fire in mid-flight, others simply _exploding_ , raining down jagged shards from above. Irala didn’t claim to know how it worked; Sera’s explanations had baffled her to the point where she wasn’t sure if even she knew. What mattered was that it was covering fire, and damned effective at that.

Irala held her injured arm close across her stomach. Under ideal circumstances, she would have tucked it behind her back, but these weren’t ideal, and she discarded the thought. _Keep moving._ Her feet stepped back and forth, back and forth, giving ground when it was needed, pressing inward when she sighted an opportunity. Cassandra’s presence on her flank protected her vulnerable side, making the angle of attack for the demons even narrower. Razor sharp concentration incisively cut away anything but the battle. No soldiers to worry about here, no tactics or surprises, just the enemies in front of her and the blade in her hand.

Another terror leaped at her, swinging its claws downward, gibbering madly. Perhaps it thought her easy prey. Perhaps it thought it could make her afraid, feed off that fear, and overwhelm her.

The first demon had caught her by surprise with its ambush. This one had no such advantage.

Irala drifted to her left almost effortlessly, side-stepping, right foot slipping behind her as she moved into an elegant ninety degree pirouette. The terror’s talons scythed into the space that she had so recently vacated, and with the controlled precision of a surgeon, Irala whipped a diagonal slash up and across the demon’s face. The cut left in its wake smoked viciously and the creature shrieked, toppling as rune combined with blessed aura to destroy it utterly.

She reset herself, taking light steps back into formation. She still favoured plate mail, but with Cassandra here, she had been free to select a less weighty suit of armour, and that was paying dividends with agility.

They had fought their way forward, fought their way around the corner of the craggy terrain. There beyond it lay the rift, glistening with its sickly light, hanging above scorched ground like a great unblinking eye. More demons swarmed forth, another tearing through the hole in the fade even as the party approached. Some ‘small’ rift this turned out to be. Irala’s palm still tingled with a thousand pinpricks of lightning; could it have been reacting to the anchor?

No time to think about that now. They were being pressed hard. Each successive blast of fire Dorian conjured was a little less potent than the last, and Irala could feel her friend’s strength beginning to wane. More of the arrows that sprouted suddenly from a head or chest or shoulder were simply regular shafts, and Irala could hear Cassandra softly panting. Irala wasn’t in much better state. Her movements were slower, more sluggish, and she had been bleeding untreated for several minutes now. She wouldn’t be able to carry on with this wound for much longer.

“Get me some space!” she barked, taut as wire.

Nobody said a word, but unspoken understanding spread through the quartet. Cassandra ducked her shoulder and charged forwards, using her shield as a battering ram. A flask spun high overhead, catching the light, and then was struck by an arrow, shattering with a concussive _boom_. Dorian’s magic enveloped her, the barrier pushing outwards, momentarily forming a hardened shell that forced the demons back, or else be seared by pure mana.

 Irala’s fist clenched tightly around her sword’s hilt, and she inhaled slowly, drawing upon the lyrium-fuelled reservoir of power that lay deep within her. For a moment, her eyes drifted closed, a feeling of serene peace settling upon her shoulders as the sounds of battle faded into nothingness. For that perfect instant, there was nothing but her and her own iron conviction. And then she exhaled, and the breath became something else entirely. A force rippled outward from her in a cry that was somehow simultaneously both silent and deafening, carried forth on a flood of radiantly white mist, as unstoppable as a wave crashing against the shore. 

Where that pulse struck the demons, the effect was quite spectacular. Forget fire, forget the runes, forget even Cassandra’s blessed aura. Each impact resulted in a bone-rattling explosion, bright flares bursting out again, again, again in a rain of miniature stars. They were accompanied by agonised, furious howls as each demon was forcibly ejected either back into the Beyond or out of existence entirely. And then the wave hit the rift itself, and for one staggering second, even the rift wavered, shuddering wildly in place, groaning under the strain. Briefly, it settled, but then Irala thrust out her palm towards it, forcing the anchor outwards. It was a matter of moments before the familiar feeling of being _tethered_ started up, the mark upon her hand thrumming with its strange power, keening higher and higher until-

**_Thoom._ **

The rift exploded. Those few remaining demons shrieked with dismay.

Irala, on legs suddenly devoid of all strength, slumped sideways and crashed to the ground. She blinked once, twice, only dimly aware that she was on the ground. Although she couldn’t see much from this angle, what she could seemed washed out, grey. Oh. Maybe she’d overdone it. A faint buzz emanated from behind her eyes, digging downward, towards a chest that felt… empty, a vessel without contents.

“Maker’s breath! Irala!” footsteps from beyond, and then she was being rolled onto her back. Dorian’s face swam into view above her, wrought with concern. “Are you all right?” his voice sounded strangely muffled, as if he was speaking from the other side of a door.

“Tired,” she managed. And she was. Not aching with fatigue, or even hurting, just… numb. She still couldn’t feel her arm.

“Fasta vaas!” Dorian cursed, swinging away and out of view. “Sera! The regenerative, if you please!”

“Got it!” he was replaced with Sera, eyes wide and worried. Her lip was marked where she’d chewed it, and there was a faint smear of some unspeakable chemical across her cheek. Irala couldn’t help but flinch. She hadn’t been this close to Sera since… since…

Rational thought fled her as Sera’s arm tucked behind her and lifted into a halfway seated position. Behind her, someone else was supporting her head and back in a firm grip. Cassandra? Elgar’nan, did they all have to be babysitting her like a child?

“You had better bloody be okay,” Sera muttered, and Irala wasn’t sure if she was actually talking to her. “You stupid bloody buggering-“ her voice choked, and a sleeve swiped across Sera’s eyes, which glistened faintly. When her hand reappeared, it held a flask filled with bright orange fluid, gently fizzing. She uncorked it, brought it up towards Irala’s mouth, tipping upwards, pouring the liquid between her lips.

It was bitter, and Irala coughed as the potent flavour hit her tongue. Rashvine and elfroot did not mix to pleasant effect, and as much as alchemical genius took place in Skyhold, the herbalists had yet to figure out how to make a potion taste anything less than horrible.

“Steady, steady now,” Dorian urged. “We don’t want her to choke.”

“Will you stop jawing and make sure the demons aren’t going to get back up!? I don’t need your shite right now, Dorian!”

There was probably some manner of retort, but Irala was finding it a little difficult to hear properly through ringing ears. Nevertheless, she was able to, just about, see Dorian take up a defensive position. A moment later and the grip on her head went away, and she almost went tumbling straight backward, would have done if Sera didn’t catch her. Cassandra emerged from behind Irala, joining Dorian.

Irala swallowed, eyes blurring for an entirely different reason. Sera was holding her. She was _in Sera’s arms_.

“Don’t bloody die, alright?” Sera told her with a scowl. “I-“ her breath caught, she broke off, started again. “We need you. What’s the point of killing Corypheshit if you die to some poxy demons?”

Irala managed a weak smile. The grey was beginning to ebb away from the corners of her vision, colour painstakingly seeping back into the world as the herbal concoction slowly began to take effect. While the potion wasn’t any real substitute for proper medical attention, it’d at least keep her going until they could make it to a healer. Creators, she didn’t know if she’d ever felt so tired before.

"M'fine," she lied in a soft mumble.

"You are so not fine you liar."

Irala attempted to shake her head, and her vision spun away from her in a dizzying spiral. Bad idea, really bad idea. She would maybe just lay here for a while longer. That sounded good.

"Buckles! Don't you dare close your frigging eyes!" Sera's fingers gripped her by the chin. "Stay awake!"

The words, more than the grip, startled Irala's fluttering eyelashes into full alertness. Buckles.  _Buckles._

It would have been nice to kid herself that the tears were just from the pain.


End file.
